


The Bear and the Wolf

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Series: Heroine Without Honor [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abduction, Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Communication Failure, Dancing, Dark Past, Dark Secrets Revealed in Thalmor Dossiers, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Gen, Love/Hate, Manipulative Relationship, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, People Are Bad at Feelings, Power Dynamics, Psychological Trauma, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Shady Deals With the Daedra, Sitting Around and Talking, Tense Sexual Situations, The Unlikeliest of Allies, Torture, Tragedy, Trust Issues, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 60
Words: 177,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ulfric Stormcloak is determined to win the Dragonborn over to his side and make her his. Scarred by her past and bent on vengeance, the Dragonborn wants nothing to do with the war or her destiny, but is thrown into the chaos regardless. But is the jarl capable of gaining the mercurial, prideful heroine as an ally - or more than that? And can the Dragonborn survive the ghosts of the life she left behind when an old enemy reemerges to hunt her down?</p><p>Loosely follows the Civil War questline with some of the main questline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Helgen

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is: the first chapter of the longest and possibly best fic I've ever written. It's been a long time coming, but I wanted to repost some of the other _Skyrim_ fics that deal with Kajsa before I got to the main attraction.
> 
> I'll be tweaking some story details and editing as I repost chapters, but for the most part, the original is left untouched. And so, without any further ado... _The Bear and the Wolf_.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER: I do not own _The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim_ or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine. Kajsa Red-Blade is my original character and she belongs to me.**

The hoofbeats, mingled with the snorting of horses and the jingling of harnesses, were the first things Kajsa heard as she stirred.

Her eyelids, heavy with a restless, nightmarish sleep, struggled to lift. At first, everything blurred together in shades of black and green, but as her eyes opened further and her raw skin prickled with cold, her surroundings slowly began to take form.

In the early morning, mist shrouded everything: the road ahead, the nearby rock crags and the mountains in the distance, the towering pines. The only distinct things were the back of the Imperial soldier sitting in the front seat of the cart and the wagons ahead.

Kajsa frowned, suspicious and afraid. Glancing down at her hands, she found her wrists bound before her with secure loops of scratchy rope. Her torn and muddied clothing, as well as the weapons and the knapsack she had been carrying, were still missing, but she was at least clothed now, in a tattered tunic and footwraps. There was a weight around her neck that felt strangely familiar; looking down, she saw her battered amulet of Talos resting on her chest.

Her last memories came rushing back to her all at once, harsh and unforgiving, bringing tears to her eyes with their intensity. She tightened her jaw, trying to keep them back, and she winced as she felt the scabbing, bloody slashes on her face twinge.

 _Oh,_ gods _... Tariq, no –_ Kajsa’s head jerked up and she squinted at the cart ahead, trying to make out a familiar form. _Where is he? Why am I –?_

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

The man’s voice caught her attention and she glanced over at him. He was a Nord in his late twenties with shoulder-length blonde hair, adorned with a braid on one side, and stubble on his face. Muscular biceps bulged from the chain mail sleeves of his bronze and grey-blue uniform; he, too, had his wrists bound.

“You all right there?” he questioned, concern showing in his eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, Kajsa nodded stiffly, despite herself. Feeling bile rise in her throat, she swallowed hard, forcing it back down. Her stomach growled, reminding her of her weakened state and the intense hunger clawing at her.

“Damn you Stormcloaks!” That was muttered by another man – scrawny, nervous-looking, and dressed in rags – accompanied by a scathing look at the first man. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell by now!”

Kajsa shifted in her seat so she could get a better look behind her, lips pressing together as the unhealed wounds on her back twisted, and then realized that there was another in the cart: a powerfully built Nord with long, neatly groomed hair that was a dark goldenrod color. He wore a fur-trimmed robe with bracers on his wrists and fine boots. His profile, obscured only by a thin braid falling across his face, was rugged and chiseled; his light blue-green eyes were piercing. Not only were his large hands tied, but a cloth gag covered his mouth as well. Unlike the two arguing men across from her, he leaned over his knees, his gaze distant.

 _A solder, a thief, a nobleman... and me._ She swallowed again, feeling more uneasy with every passing moment. _What’s going on?_

“You there.” The horse thief tried to get her attention. “You and me – we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the first man, the blonde soldier, remarked darkly.

“Shut up back there!” the Imperial driver ordered sharply.

 _Stormcloaks._ A lump filled her throat as she took a second look at the man across from her. How could she not have noticed his armor, the obvious conclusion from the colors?

 _Maybe it has something to do with my splitting headache,_ Kajsa thought dryly, angrily. She wished her hands were free – not only to throttle the unsuspecting Imperial soldier manning the cart, but to rub her temples and give herself _some_ kind of relief. _If I make it out of this alive..._

“And what’s wrong with him, huh?” The horse thief jerked his chin at the nobleman, who raised his head, his eyes suddenly cold as steel.

“Watch your tongue!” the soldier snapped. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King.”

Kajsa gasped involuntarily, stunned. _Ulfric Stormcloak? Gods and Daedra, are all things Divine conspiring against me?_

The horse thief had the same reaction. “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion! But if they’ve captured you...” He stared at the jarl, horror-struck. “Oh, gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” the soldier said grimly, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No – this can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!” The horse thief began to panic, his eyes full of fear.

Kajsa craned her head around. The walls of a village, fortified with wood and topped with a thatched walkway for guards, lay at the end of the road. A single, plain tower, also of stone, loomed behind them.

_Is this where I am to die?_

* * *

Ulfric observed the woman, his eyebrows furrowing. She was surprisingly young, perhaps in her mid-twenties; even though she looked to be a Nord, her high cheekbones and small, slim figure were more characteristic of a Breton. Straight hair the color of raw umber, fraught with tiny braids, hung in a raggedly cut line to her chin. The dried blood from three scabbing slashes on one cheek matched the color of her full lips. Judging by the bloody, filthy rags that hung loosely on her bony frame, she had hardly been treated better than them; she sat with shoulders hunched, broken and defeated, face wrought with grief and pain.

She wasn’t a Stormcloak and _that_ was for certain; the jarl knew which of his soldiers had been with him in the ambush. Besides, she had been loaded on the cart, unconscious and still bleeding, by an Imperial patrol near Fort Neugrad after they’d been captured.

“Hey. What village are you from, horse thief?” Ralof addressed Lokir, the other man in the cart, with a softer tone than before. The voice jerked the jarl out of his thoughts and back to the present moment.

“Why do _you_ care?” the man said scathingly.

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

Lokir paused. “Rorikstead. I’m... I’m from Rorikstead.”

 _Windhelm._ Ulfric thought of his city: cold and harsh and unforgiving to any outsider, but strong and ancient, the pride of Ysgramor. Built of stone, laid down by those who had long departed from the mortal plane, and ice. The towering, forbidding gates, the Temple of Talos, the Palace of the Kings... the city would never be just a city to him; it would _always_ be his home.

An Imperial’s voice rose over the steady sound of the horses’ hooves. “General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!”

“Good,” came the brusque reply. “Let’s get this over with.”

Underneath the cloth tied over his mouth, the jarl scowled. _That puffed-up milk-drinker is lucky that his men had enough brains to gag me. If they did not, I would have broken every bone in his body with my_ thu’um _... as a start._

A shadow passed over the cart as the horse pulled it through the gates and into the village. Small wooden houses with thatched straw roofs were scattered along a worn cobblestone street, choked with untamed bushes. Craggy mountains, covered in ice and snow, enclosed the outpost. Several villagers paused to watch the carts roll in with a loathing in their eyes.

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh,” Lokir prayed in a frantic undertone. “Divines, please help me.”

The young woman let her head fall as the cart started down the village road. For a brief moment, Ulfric wondered which gods she was praying to.

By the gate, General Tullius sat astride a magnificent bay stallion, talking to a haughty Altmer woman who was also on horseback. Even from here, the jarl had only to observe her snooty mien and perfectly put-together appearance to realize it was Elenwen, and his blood ran cold.

Ralof seemed to hear his thoughts. “Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor,” he spat with obvious disgust. “And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

Ulfric couldn’t have agreed more. As the cart pulled further into the village, he kept his eyes on the pair of them. _A bloodthirsty, treacherous combination... and I am at their “mercy.”_

The soldier gazed at the houses in recognition. “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

From the porch of the inn, a young boy sat cross-legged on the steps and watched the procession. “Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

“You need to go inside, little cub,” his father said gently, scooping him up.

“Why?” he protested sulkily. “I wanna watch the soldiers.”

“Inside the house. Now.” The father’s tone was sterner and his son reluctantly obeyed with a muttered affirmative.

Ralof snorted. “We fought for their freedom... and _that_ is the welcome we get.”

“It’s all the welcome we deserve.” It was the young woman. Her voice was low and slightly hoarse, but distinctly feminine.

Ulfric glanced over at her in surprise. The soldier opened his mouth to retort, but the cart suddenly slowed by a severe stone wall, surrounding an open courtyard dominated by red and black Imperial banners and one of many squat towers.

“Get those prisoners out of the carts!” shouted the harsh, authoritative voice of an Imperial captain. “Move it!”

“Why are we stopping?” Lokir asked fretfully.

“Why do you think?” Ralof said grimly. “End of the line.” The cart jerked to a halt and he stood up. “Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

* * *

Kajsa stood unsteadily, her cramped legs threatening to give out and the wounds on her back stretching again to the point of tearing; it took all she had to grit her teeth to keep her screams from shattering the chill morning air. Beside her, Ulfric also rose, though with somewhat more grace than she.

“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” the horse thief protested, still planted in his seat.

“Face your death with some courage, thief.” With distaste, the soldier planted his foot in the other man’s side and pushed.

Nearly toppling from the cart, the thief managed to stand, but kept on with his stream of objections. “You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

The soldier rolled his eyes with exasperation as the young woman carefully stepped down from the cart. To her left, a line of captured Stormcloaks had already formed in front of two Imperials with lists. Ahead of them stood a disagreeable-looking Imperial captain, one hand resting threateningly on her sword, and a broad-shouldered Nord soldier, dressed in lighter armor than his superior, with a scroll and quill pen of his own.

“Step towards the block when we call your name!” the captain ordered sharply, folding her arms over her armored chest. “One at a time!”

Behind her, the soldier sighed as he jumped from the cart and landed on the cobblestones. “Empire loves their damn lists.”

The Nord with the list made a brief note on it and then called the first name. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” the blonde soldier murmured respectfully as the rebel leader crossed over to the courtyard, head held high.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The Stormcloak – _Ralof,_ she reminded herself – stepped away to follow Ulfric. For a moment, Kajsa thought he stared angrily at the Imperial soldier with the list, but she dismissed it. _He obviously harbors no affection towards the Legion, even less so to the man who announces his death._

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No!” the horse thief cried. “I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” All of a sudden, he dashed forward and past the startled Imperial captain.

“Halt!” she commanded, regaining her composure.

“You’re not going to kill me!” Lokir taunted as he ran up the road.

The young woman shook her head. _There’s a fine line between brave and stupid, and I have a feeling he just crossed it._

“Archers!”

From the doorway of another stone tower, a trio of Imperial archers smoothly nocked their arrows, aimed, and let them fly. The escaped thief collapsed on the cobblestones, three arrows piercing his back.

“Anyone _else_ feel like running?” the captain demanded, a scowl on her face.

“Wait. You there.” Ignoring the bravado of his superior, the Nord with the list gestured at her. “Step forward.”

Unable to do much else, Kajsa did so, her knees shaking with the effort to stand.

“Who are you?”

She fixed him with the coldest stare she could muster. “I’m not on your list.”

“We’ll see about that, prisoner,” the soldier said firmly. “Your name.”

 _What’s the harm? I’ll die anyway._ “Katarina,” she said finally, her voice cracking. “Katarina of Solitude.”

The soldier checked his scroll, then looked up, his jaw set. “You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinswoman.”

Kajsa’s shoulders slumped at his words, but she felt a peculiar sort of relief. _I suppose I should be grateful I didn’t die by_ his _hands... or worse._

“I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here, in your homeland.” The soldier almost looked contrite, but the expression was gone soon. “Follow the captain, prisoner.”

Kajsa listlessly obeyed, trudging along behind the unpleasant Imperial captain. _I’m going to die. After all I’ve been through... this is it. A public execution in my old homeland... alone._ She sighed, slipping into the crowd of bound Stormcloaks surrounding the chopping block. _An end fitting of a mercenary. A traitor._

“Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Her head jerked up. The jarl of Windhelm was standing not five feet away from her, stoic and strong. A stocky man with close-cropped white hair, wearing the ornate gold and leather armor of a general in the Legion, gloating in front of him was the one who had spoken.

“Some here in Helgen call you a hero,” the aging general continued. “But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

Ulfric grunted in reply, his mouth obstructed by the gag.

“You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down – and restore the peace!”

As if to punctuate the Imperial’s shouting, an unearthly roar echoed over the mountains. Several soldiers looked up in fear, some tightening their grip on their weapons.

“What was that?” the Nord with the list asked apprehensively.

“It’s nothing,” the general said abruptly, addressing the female captain who was now standing at his side. “Carry on.”

“Yes, General Tullius!” She saluted and motioned to the nearby Priestess of Arkay, a quiet woman in dark yellow robes. “Give them their last rites.”

The priestess raised both of her hands and began to speak, her impassioned voice carrying over the still courtyard. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you –”

A red-haired Stormcloak lunged forward. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with!” he snarled.

Lowering her arms stiffly, the priestess gave an indignant sniff. “As you wish.”

The interrupting prisoner strode forward to the chopping block, overshadowed by a bulky headsman wielding an executioner’s axe. “Come on! I haven’t got all morning!”

Stepping over, the Imperial captain grabbed him by his shoulder and shoved him onto his knees. Placing a booted foot on his back, she forced him to bare his neck for the blade. Retreating a few paces, she nodded at the headsman and he raised his axe high over his head.

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials!” the Stormcloak jeered, determined to be defiant to the last. “Can you say the same?”

Any further jibes were cut off by the sickening _thunk_ of the executioner’s axe as it cleaved through his neck and embedded itself in the wooden block. With a spurt of blood, the dead man’s head fell into a waiting crate. The captain unceremoniously kicked his body away and the corpse flopped to one side.

“You Imperial bastards!” a female Stormcloak screamed.

“Justice!” called one of the villagers.

“Death to the Stormcloaks!” shouted another with hatred.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof said in a low, sad voice. Kajsa hadn’t realized that he was beside her until now.

The Imperial captain swaggered forward. “Next, the Nord in the rags!” The words had barely left her mouth when the unearthly roar came again, louder and shriller than before.

* * *

Momentarily distracted from covertly twisting his hands free of his bonds, Ulfric glanced up at the sky, but saw only the pale white-blue color misted over with clouds. _What is making that gods-awful sound?_

“There it is again,” he heard the Nord with the list say in a worried undertone to the captain. “Did you hear that?”

She disregarded his comment. “I said, next prisoner!”

The jarl heard a slight exhaling of breath from beside him. It was the young woman from before. Her face showed no emotion at the mention of her impending death.

With a hint of pity, the Nord nodded at her. “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.”

Straightening her back and raising her chin slightly, the young woman stumbled forward, almost limping, her face like stone. As roughly as she had done so before, the Imperial captain pushed her down and readied her for the executioner’s axe.

 _Brave girl._ Still observing the scene, Ulfric continued to roll his wrists around. The Imperial that had bound him didn’t make sure that his wrists were completely slack and pressed together tightly; as a result, the ropes, already slightly frayed from rubbing them against a splintered board on the cart, were looser than normal.

The young woman’s neck lay exposed on the chopping block, and her eyes were closed, as if she were already dead. The headsman raised his axe high over his head and –

For the third time, the unearthly roar sounded out in full force as a black, jagged creature swooped over the mountains in the distance, ragged wings splayed and long, spiked tail trailing after it, jaws open in fury.

The jarl’s breath caught in his throat. _By the Nine... is that a_ dragon?

“What in Oblivion is that?” Tullius cursed.

“Sentries!” the Imperial captain called. “What do you see?”

“It’s in the clouds!” a soldier yelled, pointing upwards.

With an impact that shook the ground and stirred up a cloud of dust, the dragon landed on the top of the tower overlooking the courtyard, digging its claws into the stone. Its scales, burnished and dark, seemed to drink up the light, leaving only darkness in its wake. Demonic black horns crowned its lizard-like head.

The sound of rasping metal as swords were unsheathed grated on Ulfric’s ears, as did the cry of one of the Imperials near him. “Dragon!”

The headsman, knocked to the ground by the force of the dragon landing, struggled to stand up. Opening its massive maw, the beast roared and the executioner flew back, his bones cracking sickeningly as his body collided with one of the carts. Vivid storm-clouds swirled overhead and balls of fire fell from the sky.

“Don’t just stand there! Kill that thing!” Tullius commanded, his authoritative voice rising over the tumult. “Guards, get the townspeople to safety!”

Forgetting his bonds for a moment, Ulfric spun around. In the chaos, he sprinted for the tower behind him, leaping inside just as a blast of flame bombarded the stones. A few Stormcloak prisoners that had taken advantage of the opportunity as well were already inside, huddled against the stairs and examining the wounded.

One of them, a Nord man with matted hair and bloody armor, ran over to him. Producing an Imperial sword – _no doubt looted from one of the dragon’s victims,_ the jarl thought – he cut through Ulfric’s bonds, allowing the man to tear off his gag and take a gulp of the smoky air.

The door slammed open as Ralof, the remnants of his ropes hanging off his wrists, dragged in the young woman who was at the chopping block. Her hands were still bound and her skin was slightly singed, but amazingly, she was still alive.

“Jarl Ulfric!” the soldier demanded. “What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“'Legends' do not burn down villages,” the jarl answered grimly.

The young woman doubled over, almost going to her knees as she coughed from the smoke. Snatching the sword from the Stormcloak that had cut him loose, Ulfric grabbed the young woman by the arm and severed her bonds with a single stroke. _No sense leaving her tied up at a moment like this._

“Thank you,” she managed, rubbing her wrists.

He nodded, still gripping the Imperial blade; his captors had confiscated his sword when he surrendered and if he was to get out of this – this _hell_ alive, he would need a weapon. “We need to move. Now!”

Ralof jumped into action. “Up through the tower! Let’s go!”

The young woman was the first to react, half-running and half-crawling up the winding stone steps until she vanished from view. Suddenly, there was a colossal crash of stone and the dragon’s shrieking roar as the shadows of flame danced on the walls. She came staggering back briefly, as Ralof, already following her up, pushed her forward.

“See the inn on the other side?” the jarl heard the soldier shout. “Jump through the roof and keep going! We’ll follow when we can!”

A moment later, Ralof rushed back down the stairs. “The girl’s gone. Nearly didn’t make it, but she got to the inn, all right.”

“Good.” Ulfric scanned the base of the ruined tower. No one else was in a condition to be moved except for the soldier that had cut him free and Ralof. “We move out now. Unless that damn dragon has toppled some of the towers, we should be able to escape.”

The blonde Stormcloak nodded. “What about the keep? They’re holding some of our people in there; we shouldn’t leave without them.”

“See if you can get there in one piece. Then save all you can.” The jarl held his looted sword at the ready. “Talos guide you, Ralof.”

“And you, Jarl Ulfric.”

Together, with the other soldier at their backs, the three of them rushed out of the tower into an inferno of death and destruction that threw everything else out of Ulfric’s mind.


	2. The Sweep Job

Kajsa Red-Blade had an uncomfortable, trapped feeling about Windhelm as soon as she stepped through the gates. The stone buildings with their high arches and fiercely pointed roofs towered over everything; it almost would have reminded her of Markarth if there had been an abundance of treacherous stairways and less ice and snow.

“You come here where you’re not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!” It was a mustached Nord man, arms akimbo and shouting at a slim, stiff-backed Dunmer woman.

The young woman sighed. _However, the amiable people of Windhelm are_ very _reminiscent of Markarth._

“But we haven’t taken a side because it’s not our fight,” the dark elf protested.

“Hey,” another Nord man in ragged robes, standing at the first man’s side, suggested, “maybe the reason these gray-skins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies!”

“Imperial spies?” The woman was shocked. “You can’t be serious!”

“Maybe we’ll pay you a visit tonight, little spy,” the first man threatened ominously. “We got ways of finding out what you really are.” With that, he and his friend strode off across the courtyard, brushing past Kajsa.

The Dunmer noticed her and sneered. “Do you hate the dark elves? Are you here to bully us and tell us to leave?”

“Hardly.” _I know what it’s like to not feel welcome – especially in Windhelm._

The other’s shoulders slumped as a sad, pitying look came over her face. “You’ve come to the wrong city, then. Windhelm’s a haven of prejudice and narrow thinking, unworthy of one such as you.”

“Looked like those Nords were giving you trouble.” Kajsa glanced over her shoulder; the two men in question had stopped walking and were glaring at them.

“Nothing new there. Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don’t care much for us, but Rolff is the worst by far. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Gray Quarter, yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning.” The dark elf snorted dryly. “A real charmer, that one.”

“Sounds like he’s a popular fellow,” the other woman replied sarcastically. “But why would anyone think you’re a spy?”

“Some of these Nords will come up with any excuse to despise us. And it isn’t just the dark elves they hate – they make a target of the Argonians as well.” She paused and then continued bitterly. “In fact, just about anyone who _isn’t_ a Nord is fair game for their bullying.”

“Are you surprised that I don’t stand with them?”

“Mildly,” the Dunmer admitted, making her way to the steps leading up to the tavern that dominated the courtyard and sat down. “You _are_ a Nord, correct?”

“My father was,” Kajsa said, joining her. “My mother was a Breton. Most people believe I’m a Nord, though.” She shrugged. “Makes it easier.”

“You still know most kinship with Mer then most Nords ever will,” the other said wryly. “What’s your name?”

“Kajsa. Kajsa Red-Blade. And you?”

“Suvaris Atheron. It’s nice to see a friendly face.” She shook the Nord woman’s proffered hand. “If you don’t mind my asking, why have you come to Windhelm?”

“Business.” _And rumors._ “I’ll only be staying for a night.”

“Come down to the New Gnisis Cornerclub, then,” Suvaris recommended. “Ambarys and I don’t see eye-to-eye, but everyone knows the drinks there are far better than those at Candlehearth Hall.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kajsa stood. _A strong drink might be just what I need to keep me from tiring – and getting sentimental with people I’ve just met._ “Farewell for now.”

“Safe travels.”

* * *

 

Stealthily closing the heavy, metal-plated door behind her, Kajsa looked around approvingly at the interior of House Shatter-Shield. The wood walls with exposed beams, the worn rugs, and the soft light from the chandelier gave it a cozier impression than the exterior.

 _Shame that they keep the place locked up so tightly._ She almost smiled to herself. _Must be worried about robbers._

“There are three valuables that you need to acquire,” Vex had explained matter-of-factly. “A golden urn, a jeweled flagon, and a golden model of a ship. They shouldn’t be locked up, so it’ll be easy pickings if you _don’t get caught_.”

Kajsa had given the Imperial infiltrator a sardonic smile. “I _don’t_ get caught, Vex. That’s why I’m doing this, remember?”

The first of the artifacts, the golden urn vaguely shaped like a beehive, was resting on a table in the adjoining pantry. After stashing her lockpicks in the hidden pocket up her sleeve, the Nord thief snatched the urn, wrapped it in some linen, and placed it in an empty sack.

While creeping out of the small room, a flash of gold from the top of a shelf by the door caught her attention. Going up on tiptoes, Kajsa grabbed the jeweled flagon and stashed it in the sack after swaddling it in the same manner as the urn. _It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear a tell-tale clink._

Crossing into another neighboring room, she snuck up the stairs, being careful not to make a single creak. The second floor seemed to mirror the layout of the first: a main room and then two others flanking it. An elk’s head was mounted over a crackling fire in the grate.

 _Somebody’s here._ The thief slunk through the doorway on her right, emerging into a large, but mostly empty bedroom. On a carved wooden bed backed against the wall, a middle-aged woman slept soundly.

The golden model of the ship sat on a table at the far end of the room. Kajsa took considerable care in binding it and placing it in her sack, all the while glancing over at the sole occupant of House Shatter-Shield.

 _Job’s done. Might as well see what else there is in here._ The thief stole over to the oblivious woman and carefully reached into one of her pockets with bated breath.

A golden house key was the only thing that was on her. Disappointed, but placing it in a pouch on her armor anyway, the Nord woman crept out of the room.

* * *

 

Strolling along the darkened streets of Windhelm, Kajsa turned the key she’d found over in her hand. Once night had fallen, she’d tested it on every house and shop she passed in the hopes of it opening. None of them worked.

 _Perhaps it belongs to a safe,_ she mused. _If so, I might want to return to House Shatter-Shield and search it a little more carefully. Who knows: it might even be the key to the place!_

She paused in her tracks and glanced around, not fully realizing where she was. Glancing to one manor and then another, the thief dejectedly recognized that she was lost.

 _Curse my faulty sense of direction!_ Shaking her head, the Nord thief took another look at her surroundings. Brass gates on either side of her heralded the entrances to two grand houses.

 _I don’t think I tried these ones yet._ Checking to make sure that no guards were about, she ran under one of the gates and up the front steps of the one on her left. Crouching by the door, Kajsa whipped out the key, inserted it into the lock, and turned it carefully.

There was a tiny _click_ as it unlocked.

Mildly surprised, the thief pried open the door, noting that no candles were lit inside the house. Turning around, she shut the door behind her and then squinted into the darkness. Her eyes suddenly widened at the sight before her.

_Gods and Daedra... what happened here?_


	3. Beware the Butcher?

“Baalgruf won’t give us a straight answer,” Galmar growled, frustrated.

“He is a true Nord,” Ulfric assured, lounging on his throne. “He _will_ come around.”

“Don’t be so sure of that. We’ve intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire’s putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun.”

“And what would you have me do?” The jarl rested his chin on his fist.

The answer was immediate and harsh. “If he’s not with us, he’s against us.”

 _Baalgruf and I have our little rivalry, true, but..._ “He knows that. They all know that.” Ulfric stood and descended from the dais, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty stone hall.

“How long are you going to wait?” the housecarl demanded.

The other man shrugged tiredly, striding past him. “You think I need to send Baalgruf a stronger message.”

Galmar followed him. “If by ‘message,’ you mean ‘shoving a sword through his gullet’.”

Smiling coldly, the jarl entered a narrow hallway with an arched ceiling. “Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a much more powerful statement, do you not think?”

“So we’re ready to start this war in earnest, then?”

The pair of them entered the chamber adjoining the throne room. Once a storeroom, the crates had been stacked against the walls to allow space for a heavy wooden table that dominated the center of the room. A map of Skyrim, dotted with blue and red flags, rested upon the surface.

“Soon.” Ulfric’s fingers idly brushed over the icon that marked Whiterun’s location.

“I still say you should take them all out like you did Torygg,” the general persisted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sure as Oblivion worked.”

“Torygg was merely a message to the other jarls. Whoever we replace them with will need the support of our armies.”

“We’re ready when you are.”

The jarl leaned on the table and gazed at the map. “Things hinge on Whiterun. If we can take the city without bloodshed, all the better. But if not...”

“The people are behind you,” Galmar assured.

Ulfric sighed. “Many, I fear, still need convincing.” _Half of Skyrim needs convincing._

“Then let them die with their false kings.” The housecarl’s fist slammed on the wood to emphasize his point.

Turning away from the table, the jarl walked to one of the narrow, glass-paned windows that punctuated the stone walls and stared out, only making out the ghosts of shapes in the snowy darkness. “You and I have been soldiers for a long time. We know the price of freedom. The people are still weighing things in their hearts.”

“What’s left of Skyrim to wager?” Now Galmar leaned on the table, frowning at the map.

“They have families to think of,” Ulfric pointed out, facing the general again.

“How many of their sons and daughters follow your banner? We _are_ their families.”

“Well put, friend.” The jarl headed for the narrow hallway again. “Tell me, Galmar: why do you fight for me?”

“I’d follow you into the depths of Oblivion. You know that.”

The other man smiled fondly at his friend’s loyalty. “Yes, but why do you fight? If not for me, what then?”

“I’ll die before elves dictate the fates of men,” the housecarl rumbled from behind him. “Are we not one in this?”

The duo re-entered the main hall. As Ulfric ascended the dais, he reflected on how empty it looked – save for his steward, Jorleif, munching on his supper at the long table – and felt in spirit. It had become devoid of life and filled with the grim specter of what would await him should he fail.

“I fight for the men I have held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths.” As he spoke, his voice rose with ardor. “I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces! I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves!”

The jarl sat down heavily, feeling the cold, unyielding stone against his back. “I fight so that all the fighting I have already done has not been for nothing. I fight... because I must.”

Galmar nodded. “Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric. And that’s why you will be High King. But the day words are enough will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed.”

“I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn,” the jarl said with a hint of melancholy. _Words are never enough; they cannot exist without action at their side._

“Aye. But in the meantime, we have a war to plan.”

“That we do.” Ulfric reluctantly rose again and was about to return to the war room when his eyes caught a flicker of movement by the massive, ceiling-high brass doors.

A slim figure in snug leather armor strode across the threadbare blue carpet on the stone floor with raw grace. Despite a hood that concealed the person’s identity, the slim curves of the torso that were accentuated by the armor and the slight stature made it clear that it was a woman.

Galmar’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’ll be damned. I haven’t seen Thieves Guild garb in over twenty-five years.” One hand went to the iron battleaxe on his back.

The jarl extended one hand, silently stopping him, his eyes never wavering from the figure. _Who is she that would be so brazen as to simply walk in here?_

As the woman drew nearer, the details of her armor became clearer: myriads of straps and buckles, protective shoulder and knee pads, pouches and pockets. A pair of ebony war axes hung from her belt, while a quiver of arrows and the curve of a glass bow were visible over one shoulder. There was the glint of a ring on one finger and an amulet resting on her chest.

She stopped at the head of the table to address Jorleif. “Are you the steward?” Her voice was low and hoarse; for some reason, Ulfric thought it sounded familiar.

“I am.” Abandoning his dinner for the moment, Jorleif stood up and cleared his throat. “What business have you here?”

“I’ve heard about these... _murders_.” Her tone was neutral, but there was an edge to it. “If you’ll accept my help, I’ll offer it.

The steward looked surprised, but he quickly regained his composure. “Ah – yes. Yes, of course. The guards are stretched thin as it is, but they will be told to assist you as necessary. I’m happy to lend a hand as much as I can, as well,” he added.

“Excellent.” From a pouch at her waist, the woman pulled out what looked like a necklace and handed it to him. “Do you know what this amulet is?”

Jorleif turned it over in his hands in bewilderment. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you find it?”

“Hjerim. The house belonged to a victim of the killer, and there was a blood trail from the graveyard that led to there.”

“I would take this to Calixto at the House of Curiosities,” the steward advised after mulling for a moment, returning it. “He has a good eye for strange trinkets. Might even give you a bit of gold for it”

She nodded, neatly depositing the necklace in the pouch, and showed him a small sheet of parchment. “Can you tell me anything about the ‘Butcher’?”

The steward made a noise of disgust. “Have you been talking to Viola Giordano? She posts those –” he jabbed at the flyer “– all over the city and someone keeps taking them down. Ask _her_ about it if you want an earful.”

“I intend to.” She bowed her head slightly. “Thank you for your time.” Turning on one heel, she strode away.

Suddenly, Jorleif frowned. “Excuse me, but –”

The _bang_ of one of the doors as they closed cut off his words.

Aghast, the steward whirled around. “Jarl Ulfric!”

“Yes, Jorleif?”

“She’d – she’d already _started_ investigating! How else would she –” The red-haired man was almost too livid for words. “And then she comes as an _afterthought!_ ”

“Probably cleared out the place rather than tracking the killer to there,” Galmar snorted. “I’ve never heard of a kindly thief.”

“Hjerim is abandoned,” Jorleif corrected, calming down slightly. “Tova Shatter-Shield and her husband took back all of their daughter’s belongings upon her death. I oversaw the moving myself –” He paused again, his face going white. “That would mean she either picked the lock or stole the key –”

“Calm yourself,” Ulfric ordered. “You have been looking for someone to catch the ‘Butcher’ for weeks, and now you have a woman with two promising leads.”

His housecarl glanced at him incredulously. “Aren’t you worried about the Guild?”

“This is the first I have heard of them making a comeback, but yes, it _is_ a cause for concern. If Jorleif’s new helper _does_ manage to catch the killer, then perhaps some kind of bargain can be struck that would preserve Windhelm.”

“You’re nothing like that Black-Briar bitch, Ulfric,” Galmar snorted. “Don’t degrade yourself. Just send them a clear message and that’ll be that.”

The jarl smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I will keep all of my options open.”

* * *

Dusk had already fallen by the time Kajsa staggered back up the steps to the Palace of the Kings. To say it had been quite the exhausting day would have been a gross understatement.

After getting permission from the jarl’s steward (not that it mattered much either way, but it was nice to be operating semi-officially), she’d gone straight to Candlehearth Hall and rented a room for the night. In the morning, she’d tramped all over Windhelm to track down Viola Giordano, and when she finally found the older woman, the conversation hadn’t been very fruitful. Amidst Viola’s overzealous ranting about the guards slacking on their duties because of the war, the only clue she divulged was that the “Butcher” was _obviously_ Wuunferth the Unliving, the jarl’s court mage – apparently, there were many rumors concerning some of his more dubious experiments. Kajsa had no idea if necromancy was among them, but she'd thought it worth investigating.

Calixto Corrium was slightly more helpful, being able to tell her what the mysterious amulet was. Apparently, it was called the Wheelstone, and it was an ancient symbol of power traditionally carried by the court mage. Seeing no more need to hold onto it, the thief sold the overjoyed man the amulet for a tidy sum of five hundred septims.

Even though the jarl’s steward had offered his help, Kajsa still felt she should investigate Wuunferth the Unliving before going to him. So after a quick break for lunch at the New Gnisis Cornerclub (they really did have good drinks, but nothing compared to Black-Briar mead from the Ragged Flagon), as well as making a stop at her room at Candlehearth Hall to pack up – and to switch out her ebony war axes and glass bow to the prized Ebony Blade – she’d warily confronted the court mage.

He’d been highly offended, of course, but his curiosity was piqued when she mentioned the Wheelstone. Wuunferth had hastily corrected her; it was actually the legendary Necromancer’s Amulet. Informing her that he, too, had been investigating the murders on the side, the court mage pointed her in the direction of the Stone Quarter – where all of the other killings had taken place.

Sprinting out of the Palace of the Kings with the Ebony Blade drawn, she’d reached the marketplace just in time to avert a fourth murder. A mildly pretty Altmer woman – presumably, the intended victim – was screaming her head off as a dagger-brandishing Calixto clumsily escaped from the scene. It had taken Kajsa mere seconds to run him down and drive her sword through his heart. True to her thieving nature, she’d discreetly pickpocketed him to retrieve the Necromancer’s Amulet and the key to his museum, as well as his coin purse.

On her way back to the palace, the thief had let herself into the House of Curiosities. Kajsa proceeded to search the murderer’s house, and finally, she’d found his journal, containing a both macabre and (to a lesser extent) poignant message to his deceased sister that more or less explained his motivation for the killings. Leaving Calixto’s museum in its ransacked state, she ran through the jagged streets and alleys until she reached the Palace of the Kings.

The Nord woman pushed open one of the massive doors tiredly, slipped inside, and let it fall with a _bang_ behind her. The throne hall was completely empty, save for the steward: sitting at the great table in the center, eating his dinner alone.

When he saw her, the red-haired man shot out of his seat and ran over. “What was so important that you couldn’t delay getting out of the palace for _five minutes_ to tell me?”

Kajsa internally winced. On her dash to reach the Stone Quarter before the killer could strike again, the steward had tried to stop her, demanding to know what the latest news on the case was. She’d pushed him out of the way in her rush for the door, and none too gently, either.

“Calixto Corrium was the Butcher,” she said grimly, cutting to the chase.

The steward’s eyes widened in surprise. “Ysmir’s beard! The man was always a bit odd, but I wouldn’t have expected...” He regained his composure quickly, his voice grateful. “You’ve done this city a mighty service, friend. I believe you’ll find the guards to be a bit more cordial with you in the future.”    

The thief nodded. “Thank you –”

“Jorleif. Steward to Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm. And you?”

“Kajsa. Kajsa Red-Blade.”

“Well then,” the other continued, “it would probably cheer my master greatly to hear this news. If you don’t mind terribly, could you go and tell him? I’ve got to go notify the guards to call off the search.”

The thief paused for a moment and then shrugged. _It wouldn’t kill me._ “Where is he?”

“In his quarters. Just upstairs.” Jorleif pointed to a door to the left of the throne. “Walk through the war room, go through the door, and then follow the hallway until you get to the door on the end.” He paused. “Do you need a guide?”

“No.” She brushed past him.

“By the way...” the steward called after her, “do you know where Corrium is? It would make arresting him much easier.”

Kajsa stopped and turned her head slightly, a hint of a smile on her face. “He’s in an alleyway by the marketplace. I doubt he’d resist arrest.”

Jorleif opened his mouth to say something and then, realizing she’d already slipped inside the war room, abruptly shut it. _Good gods... I’ve had enough with vigilantes._


	4. Getting Reacquainted

Most of the reports from the army’s camps were dull at best. From the way it sounded, the only real problems were the frost and dwindling food supplies. Only two camps had been attacked in the past few months, which was substantially better than before he had been captured.

However, the report from Falkreath Hold made the Jarl of Windhelm pause.

> _On a side note, I sent plainclothesmen into Falkreath to stock up on supplies and they report they saw the skeleton of a dragon in the center of town. When they asked around about it, they were told that it had been killed by a mysterious woman who apparently passed through two months ago._
> 
> _No other information was available about said dragon-slayer; the people there are a tight-lipped bunch. However, there are whispers amongst my men that it could have been the Dragonborn, even though no one knows much about whoever that is._

Frowning, Ulfric refolded the letter and placed it on the top of a stack of papers. He’d write back when he got the chance.

Like everyone else in Skyrim, he’d heard the rumors about the Dragonborn. Unfortunately, that was all that existed: mere conjecture. No one knew who it was. There were people who claimed it was a powerful and brawny warrior, unstoppable in battle; others insisted it was a woman possessed of goddess-like beauty and knowledge of the magical arts. Some even said it was an Altmer, a clear affront to Nord tradition.

The stories about the Dragonborn’s exploits ranged as wildly as the speculation about the legend’s identity. If _all_ the tales were to be believed, the hero had escaped from Helgen, brought down a dragon at the Western Watchtower of Whiterun, delved into dangerous ruins and barrows, studied with the Greybeards in the monastery of High Hrothgar, pulled off daring heists for the Thieves Guild all over Skyrim, escaped from Cidhna Mine in Markarth, rescued a Stormcloak soldier from a heavily guarded Thalmor prison, and become the Champion of many Daedric Princes – as well as helping many of the jarls and townspeople of the holds.

Ulfric had followed the rumors surrounding the Dragonborn very closely. He had no idea what side the hero had taken (or was planning to take) in the battle for Skyrim’s independence, but if it was the latter, he had every intention of the legend being aligned with the Stormcloaks.

 _It would be much wiser to keep the Dragonborn as an ally than as a foe,_ he thought to himself as he crossed to one of the windows. _No doubt that Tullius feels the same; he may be a puppet of the Empire and the Thalmor, but he’s not stupid._

 _I just have to make sure I get to the Dragonborn before_ he _does..._

Behind him, the door to his chambers closed with a soft _click._

“Only the foolish or the courageous approach a jarl without summons,” he rebuked his visitor without moving from the window.

“What would you call me, then?”

Ulfric turned around at the low, hoarse voice. It was the woman who’d come to Jorleif last night about the murders, standing quietly by the door. Her hood still concealed her face.

“May I inquire as to what you are doing here?” he asked with an edge to his voice. _She’s rather impertinent, isn’t she?_

“Your steward sent me up to give you some news.” She settled into one of the chairs by the door, crossing one leg over another. “The Butcher has been... apprehended.”

Even though he didn’t show it, the jarl was slightly impressed. _So this one woman, however flippant, succeeds where all of my guards have failed..._ “Who was he?”

“Calixto Corrium, formerly of Calixto’s House of Curiosities.” From her knapsack, the woman retrieved a stack of leather-bound journals and held them out. “He was collecting the body parts of young women and practicing necromancy in an attempt to raise his dead sister.”

Ulfric waved them away. “‘Formerly’?”

“He’s dead. I caught up with him just in time to prevent a fourth murder. Jorleif’s currently busy sending the guards to collect his body.” She tucked the journals back in her knapsack. “He sent me to give you the news.”

The jarl nodded. “Thank you for taking care of the murderer –”

“Kajsa. Kajsa Red-Blade.”

He scrutinized the woman for a moment. Even in the shadow that her hood cast over her face, he could still see her lips and the three jagged scars that ran by it.

_Gods, why does she look so familiar?_

“Stand up,” he ordered abruptly.

Hesitantly, hands gripping the armrests, Kajsa stood; as far as height was concerned, she was only a few inches shorter than he, but her slight frame made her seem much smaller.

“Take off your hood.”

Slowly and stiffly, the woman obeyed him. The candlelight threw her high cheekbones and the sharp planes of her face into harsh relief, and it seemed to glow around her chin-length, raw umber hair with its tiny braids. Her eyes, keeping his gaze with a hint of defiance, were a dark brown that nearly appeared black.

“Do I know you?” the jarl asked, frowning.

“I believe we’ve already met.” Her voice was quiet and cold.

“Is that so...?” His fingers came up under her chin and tilted it upwards, his eyes studying her face intently. The woman’s lips tightened, but her face otherwise remained still.

Then, it hit him. _Helgen. The girl in the cart. The one that Ralof helped to escape._

“Ah, yes. You were with us at Helgen.” Ulfric brought his hand away. “Destined for the chopping block, if I am not mistaken.”

Kajsa’s lips tightened. “It’s a long story.”

“I am sure it is... _thief._ ” He stepped forward, forcing her to stumble back into the chair. “You have a lot of nerve to come into my city wearing that armor.”

“I call it traveling light.” Her tone was sardonic, but her eyes were wary.

The jarl smiled humorlessly. “What business does the Thieves Guild have in Windhelm?”

“None. I’m here for my own reasons.”

“Do you expect me to believe the word of a thief?”

“Do you expect your soldiers to obey the commands of a man labeled a traitor?”

Ulfric’s face hardened with barely controlled anger. “You may be a Nord, but you are no true daughter of Skyrim yourself.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she whispered, her eyes daring him to challenge her.

The jarl clenched his fists. _I’ve never struck a woman, but for her, I might make an exception._ “Just answer my question, Red-Blade – if that is even your _real_ name.”

“I told you: I’m not in Windhelm on business.” Her voice grew slightly defensive.

“Then what for?” he spat, disbelieving. “What are your ‘reasons’?”

“Looking for work.” The thief remained unflustered.

“Does the Guild not keep you busy enough?”

“The Guild doesn’t have a monopoly on my talents. I take jobs as I please.”

Stroking his bearded chin, Ulfric paused as an idea took shape in his mind. “What kind of... _work_ do you normally do?”

“I do it all. If you can pay, I can get the job done.”

 _Not just a thief, but a sellsword at that... an interesting combination._ “I have no doubt that you have heard of the Dragonborn,” he began, seating himself on the other chair.

“Who hasn’t?”

The jarl leaned across the small round table conspiratorially. “Can you track him down?”

Her eyebrows quirked up slightly. “What for?”

“That is _my_ business. Not yours.”

“Well, I believe it _is_ my business if I’m going to find the Dragonborn.” The thief’s tone turned steely.

“Let us just say that I believe in keeping an eye on prospective allies.” He leaned back in his seat, resting one elbow on the armrest in a casual manner.

“And the pay?”

“Rest assured, I will thoroughly compensate you when the job is complete.” Ulfric’s fingers drummed lazily on the table. “Can you do it?”

Kajsa pursued her lips, as if calculating his offer. Then: “No.”

“Why not?” The jarl’s eyes glinted dangerously.

“That’s _my_ business,” she answered, mimicking his words. “Not yours.”

“Well, I believe it _is_ my business if you are turning down my contract,” he shot back. _Two can play at that game._

The woman stood, tucking her short, straight hair neatly behind her ears, and opened the chamber door. “Because the Dragonborn does not submit to any man wishing to use _her_ as a pawn to further his schemes.”

In a flash, the door slammed behind her as the echo of her running feet rang in the stone hallway outside. Ulfric sprang for the handle and twisted it, cursing loudly when he realized that it was locked from the outside. _The bitch pickpocketed my own key!_

He stepped back and, drawing on all the strength he could summon, shouted: “FUS – RO DAH!”

The wood cracked and splintered in the wake of his _thu’um_. Kicking aside what remained of the entrance to his rooms, the jarl sprinted along the corridor, down the uneven stone steps, and kicked open the door to the war room. Galmar, red-faced with rage under his bearskin helmet, was barking orders at some leaving city guards.

“My jarl!” It was Jorleif, rushing in from the throne room past the hastily departing troops. “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” Ulfric growled through gritted teeth. “Where is that thief?”

“Kajsa?” His steward frowned. “I just saw her run out of the Palace of the Kings.”

“Well, if the woman had the audacity to steal from you, she’s going to regret it soon,” the burly housecarl predicted ominously. “Those guards I just sent out should be dragging her down to the prison any time now.” He glanced over at his superior suspiciously. “Exactly _what_ happened? The way that thief was turning corners and pushing all else out of her way, I nearly thought all the daedra in Oblivion had been loosed on her.”

Frustrated, the jarl sighed heavily. “It’s a long story.”

The clanking of metal resounding through the corridor preceded the arrival of a lone guard, puffing and panting.

“Well?” Galmar demanded of the newcomer. “Has she been caught?”

“No, sir,” the guard said uncomfortably. “The thief was too quick.”

“‘Too quick’?” The housecarl’s fist slammed down on the table. “There were four of you against one woman! You should have been able to overtake her!”

“Sir – she used magic I’ve never seen the likes of!” the hapless guard protested. “She shouted some strange word and flew right though the gates as they were closing!”

Galmar’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he shot a startled look at his grim-faced master, and then as an afterthought, a fierce glare at the guard; the wretched man got the message and immediately skittered out of the war room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the housecarl rounded on the jarl. “This common thief... knows the _thu’um_?”

“It would appear,” Ulfric stated dryly, his eyes cold and hard, “that the ‘common thief,’ this... _Kajsa Red-Blade_ is, in fact, the Dragonborn of legend.” He stalked past a dumbfounded Galmar and the table with the map of Skyrim resting on it, but paused briefly before heading upstairs. “Jorleif!”

“Yes, my jarl?” The steward jumped to attention.

“Send a description of the woman to all of the army’s camps and tell them to keep an eye out for her. Write to House Grey-Mane as well; nobody passes through Skyrim without going through Whiterun at some point.”

Galmar shook himself out of his shocked state. “What are you planning?”

“To track her down myself.”


	5. Attack on Windhelm

Over the next few weeks, the Imperials and the Stormcloaks had finally grew less wary of the possibility of a dragon attack like the one on Helgen. The latter resumed their hit-and-run guerrilla warfare on the Legion, while the former spread out over Skyrim in an attempt to crush the rebellion permanently. However, neither side made to attack any of the major cities or forts. In that regard, the combatants remained frustratingly deadlocked.

During the day, Ulfric relegated himself to the war room, discussing troop movements and strategy with Galmar; the only person to enter and leave the chamber during these times was Jorleif, bearing food or communiqués. The Whiterun issue was delicately avoided, but the impending task of reclaiming the other Imperial holds was poured over extensively.

“We have the men, but we lack the means,” the jarl finally stated one gloomy evening, shrugging the bear-fur trim of his robe around him a little more securely. While the Palace of the Kings was by no means drafty, it grew freezing cold this late in the year – even for Nords.

“Aye,” Galmar agreed, nodding. “And the morale, too.”

“Every man’s soul sinks when the snows come,” Ulfric said with a hint of melancholy. “Winter is a bleak time, and a soldier cannot help but wonder if he made the right choices.”

“Never thought I’d see the day you’d condone desertion.”

“I was doing nothing of the sort!” the jarl snapped. “I was only saying it is natural.”

His housecarl frowned at him with a sort of gruff concern. “You’re not looking too well, friend. Are you ill?”

“No, no,” Ulfric sighed irritably, leaning on the table and staring at the map in the same manner he’d done hundreds of times before. “I am merely tired.”

“Grumpier than a bear roused out of hibernation, too,” Galmar observed with a snort. “What’s troubling you? It isn’t the Dragonborn, is it?”

The jarl scowled deeply at the mention of the title. Ever since Kajsa had made her daring escape from Windhelm, he’d been following – or rather, _attempting_ to follow – her movements. Unfortunately, she had thoroughly covered up her tracks and, as a result, Ulfric had heard almost no mention of the impudent thief save for the occasional story of a dragon slaying.

Writing to the Grey-Manes had turned up only two pieces of useful information. Vignar had sent him a polite, but largely unhelpful letter in response informing him that other than her famous rescue of his nephew, Thorald, from Northwatch Keep, he knew almost nothing about the Dragonborn, save that she was Thane of Whiterun and owned the traditional thane’s house, Breezehome, in the city. The clan patriarch added after the fact that Kajsa never seemed to stay for very long and that he had no idea where she went for the rest of the time.

Sending a courier off with a note addressed to the thief’s house was a start, but it did nothing to improve Ulfric’s spirits. He spent long nights in his chambers, writing letters to his field commanders and known supporters of his to press them for any news, and pacing incessantly the rest of the time.

Galmar took the grimace for an affirmative answer. “Any more news, then?”

“None. The courier I sent to Whiterun has not returned yet.” Ulfric started restlessly tapping his fingers on the table.

Jorleif, clearing the dinner dishes, took the opportunity to pipe up. “Perhaps you should... give the search a rest? I’m no strategist, but –”

“No,” the jarl interrupted firmly. “It must happen now. This war is at a stalemate, and only the Dragonborn has a chance of tipping the scales in our favor.”

“Or that of the Imperials,” his housecarl pointed out bleakly. “What makes you so sure she’ll readily join our side?”

Ulfric sighed. “I have no guarantees that she will,” he admitted. “But we must try.”

“Have you considered the risks of having a thief and supposed Daedra-worshipper among our ranks?” Galmar demanded. “The boost in morale could come at a dangerous price.”

“If she so much as steals a septim from another soldier, she _will_ be punished severely,” the jarl said coldly. “I made it very clear to her last time that I do not tolerate the Guild’s operations in Windhelm, and the same is true for the Stormcloaks.”

Jorleif looked slightly pale. “ _Daedra_?”

“I will deal with that when the time comes.”

“ _If_ the time comes,” the housecarl pointed out. “You’re no closer to finding this Kajsa then you were before. If she’s not in any of the hold cities or towns, there’s no telling where she went! For all we know, she could be camped out in some Dwemer ruin or ancient Nord barrow, even up in High Hrothgar!”

“The Dragonborn _will_ be found, Galmar,” Ulfric growled. “The fate of Skyrim – the fate of the whole of Tamriel – rests on her shoulders. She cannot hide forever.”

Suddenly, a violent tremor shook the war room. Jorleif, caught off-balance, stumbled to the ground with a clatter of silver against stone as the plates hit the floor. The jarl and his housecarl were fortunate enough to grab the table for support, but they still staggered.

As quickly as it had come, it ceased.

“Shor’s bones,” Galmar swore. “What _was_ that?”

His answer came in the form of an unearthly roar, faintly echoing from the outside.

“A dragon,” Ulfric said flatly, too shocked to raise his voice. _Gods, how many of these things are out there?_

Wasting no more time, the jarl spun around and began barking orders. “Galmar, roust the guards and set the archers to bringing the dragon down; make sure they have swordsmen to back them up if it should get any closer. Jorleif, take a few men and make sure that all of the citizens get inside safely.”

His housecarl nodded curtly and then immediately ran from the war room, shouting for guards as he thundered along. The patrol inside the throne room hastily followed him out as the huge metal doors slammed behind them. Ulfric strode after the group, one hand on his war axe.

“My jarl!” The hesitant steward caught up to his master and stepped in front of him. “You’re not planning to fight that – that _thing,_ are you?”

“It is my duty as a jarl to protect my people, Jorleif – at whatever cost.”

“I fully realize that, my jarl, but don’t you think it might be a little... _unwise_?”

Ulfric pushed his steward aside and reached for the door handle, but another tremor, closer and more forceful than the last, rocked the walls of the hall; both men staggered backwards. A frustrated, howling roar that made their blood run cold accompanied it.

“It has landed.” Before Jorleif could stop him, the jarl drew his war axe, pushed open the door, and dashed outside.

Beyond the courtyard, the front steps of the Palace of the Kings had the makings of a battlefield. Archers fumbled to put away their bows and pull out their swords while a small group of guards circled a massive frost dragon warily.

The creature itself looked vicious, with bluish-white scales illuminated by the guards’ torches and wickedly pointed spikes on its head and back; its arrow-pierced wings rendered it crippled, but not defenseless. Snapping at the assembled force with its maw of cracked, yellowing teeth, the dragon drove the line back to the stone walls.

One archer accidentally stumbled and fell on the steps. Whipping its head around at the sudden motion, the beast opened its huge mouth – and screeched in pain as an arrow flew into the unprotected underside of its scaly neck.

Stowing away its bow and brandishing a long, thin blade, the shooter cleared the low steps with a leap and slashed at the frost dragon. The guards took advantage of the distraction to retreat and ready a volley of arrows.

Galmar, noticing Ulfric and Jorleif watching the battle, dashed over to them to briefly report. “The archers were already firing, but the guards needed some encouragement.”

“It appears that this warrior has the dragon taken care of,” the steward observed.

At that moment, the creature let loose a deadly breath of frost with a powerful shriek, catching the shooter in its wake; all three men turned their attention back to the fight, fixed in place with awe and fear. The figure, seemingly unaffected by the attack, lunged forward and plunged its sword deep into the dragon’s throat.

Releasing a chilling death cry, the beast slashed wildly at its slayer with black talons as it fell to the stone, never to rise again. Hit by the dragon’s final attack, the shooter collapsed to its knees alongside its foe, shoulders rising and falling with the effort to breath.

All of a sudden, the frost dragon’s scales began to burn, glowing with a fiery golden light that stripped the creature of its flesh and muscle right down to the bone. Wisps of light shot from the corpse and surrounded the fallen shooter with an ethereal aura that illuminated the contours of her armor-clad body.

 _Her_. With a jolt of recognition, Ulfric realized it was Kajsa. _What is_ she _doing here?_

The strange radiance seeped into the thief, shooting inwards like bolts of lightning and leaving a swirling cloud of light around her. Then it vanished, leaving the courtyard devoid of light, save for the flickering torches of the astonished guards.

Formerly huddled by Candlehearth Hall, a small crowd of citizens now cautiously inched forward towards the crumbled skeleton of the frost dragon. The guards did the same, murmuring to their comrades about how they’d never seen anything like it.

On her hands and knees, Kajsa crawled away from the gathering mass of people. Her back arched upwards, nearly doubling over as she clapped one hand to her stomach, coughing.

“Well, old friend,” Galmar observed gruffly, “I think you needed to look for the Dragonborn a little closer to Windhelm.”

“Now’s not the time, Stone-Fist,” Jorleif rebuked. “The Dragonborn’s badly hurt! She needs medical attention straight away!” He glanced at Ulfric for confirmation.

Reluctantly, the jarl nodded. “Jorleif, rouse Wuunferth and tell him of what has happened here, then go make up one of the guest bedrooms. Galmar –” here, he addressed his housecarl “– set the guards to moving those dragon bones into the basement of the Palace of the Kings; we need to get them out of the way.”

“It’s as good as done, my jarl.” The steward bowed his head and hurried back across the inner courtyard. Galmar marched in the opposite direction, towards the remains of the frost dragon, now surrounded by curious citizens and guards alike.

Ulfric strode over to the injured thief, knelt down by her side, and grasped her shoulders. “Can you stand?”

At the sound of his voice, Kajsa’s head jerked up, startled, her dark eyes filled with a spark of defiance.

“It would be unwise to run,” he said menacingly, his grip on her tightening.

She glared at him, but her body slackened, defeated. It was all the permission he needed.

Supporting her, the jarl carefully helped the Dragonborn to her feet. She only remained there for a few moments before her knees began to buckle under her, making her dangerously close to falling again.

Seeing no other alternative, Ulfric scooped the slight woman up into his arms and began the short walk back towards the Palace of the Kings. A light snow had begun to fall over the city, and flakes tumbled onto his hair and fur-cloaked shoulders, as well as her exposed face.

“Am I to be a prisoner?” Kajsa whispered dryly, her eyelids drooping.

The jarl remained silent, his jaw tightening.


	6. Lock and Key

_The pain was all she felt; it overtook the sensation of her blood running down her back from her raw and open wounds, the aching of her overstretched arms and shoulders, the manacles chafing against her wrists, and the tears held back behind squeezed-shut eyelids._

_But it was not enough to shut out_ his _voice, like the sound of the finest, thinnest dagger shearing through silk: alluring, but deadly and full of contempt._

_“Weak,” he murmured, running long, pliant fingers over her back, probing his handiwork; she tensed in revulsion, her body taut as a drawn bowstring. “You humans may think yourselves strong, but you are but things to be conquered.”_

_His touch left her and when she heard him pick up the whip again, stroking the leather-bound handle, bile crawled up her throat. Without warning, it cracked down on her once more, creating new welts across present wounds, stinging her skin and cutting the flesh._

_This time, she screamed._

Kajsa jolted upright: her breathing shuddering and irregular, her skin slick with sweat, a cry on her lips. She glanced around wildly, her eyes nearly mad with fear; no one was there.

 _Thank the gods... just a nightmare._ Her shoulders slumped with relief and she tiredly pushed her hair back from her forehead. _I could wake up this time..._

Lifting her head wearily, the thief took a better look at her surroundings. Walls of stone, supported with wooden beams, surrounded the small room. She lay in a simply carved bed covered with a fur blanket; the other furniture – nightstand, chair, end table, wardrobe – was in the same style. The inviting colors of a fire glowed in a hearth to the right of her. There were no real windows to speak of, only elaborate patterns on the walls that left openings in the stone for light to shine through.

 _Where in Oblivion am I?_ Glancing down at herself, she realized her Guild leathers were missing; in its place was a loose linen shirt much too large for her. _And_ where _is my armor?_

A polite knock on the door startled her still-sleeping senses.

Kajsa lifted her voice slightly, relieved to feel that it was not worn with screaming, like in her nightmare. “What?”

The door opened a crack and a red-haired man with a bushy mustache and a fur hat stuck his head in; he looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place his face.

She frowned at him. “Who are you?”

“Jorleif. The jarl’s steward,” he clarified, watching her carefully. “Don’t you remember?”

 _Now_ she remembered everything – her trip to Windhelm for the Thieves Guild job, the unexpected frost dragon, her injuries. _Dear gods and Daedra. I’m in the Palace of the Kings._

“Are you feeling all right... miss?” Jorleif ventured tentatively. It seemed to Kajsa that he was hesitant to address her as “milady” (which, even though she could act like one in a pinch, she most certainly was _not_ a noblewoman of good breeding), let alone “Dragonborn.”

“I’m fine,” the thief said curtly. “Where’s my armor?”

“Being repaired by Oengul down at his forge. The front got torn open by the dragon and took most of the damage for you. Your other belongings are here, though.” He stuck a hand in to gesture to her knapsack and weaponry that were lying on the floor by the bed. “I’ll send for it when he’s done.”

Kajsa nodded numbly. “What day is it?”

“The twenty-sixth of Sun’s Dusk, miss. You slept for nearly half the day while Wuunferth’s magic did its work.” The steward ducked his head out of the room, but then stuck it back in again. “By the way, the jarl asked me to convey an invitation to dinner. He’d very much like to see you there.”

 _Damn him._ The thief smiled tightly as she swung her legs out from under the bedcovers. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to get cleaned up, then. Get me a bathtub and some hot water.”

“Immediately, miss.” Jorleif seemed more than happy to leave her be.

As soon as the door closed, she heard the slight _click_ of a lock. Leaping up and running to it, Kajsa attempted to turn the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge.

Heaving a dramatic sigh and wandering slowly back to the bed, the slight woman sat on the edge and pulled her shirt up by the hem to inspect the damage to her torso. The restoration magic must have been truly skillful; aside from her general aches and bruising, there was no sign that the frost dragon’s claws had even touched her.

 _Well, it’s not as if I’m terribly vain, anyway._ She chuckled to herself, tracing the long, ugly gash of a scar left by Mercer Frey’s sword with one finger before letting her shirt drop, grabbing her knapsack, and pulling it up on her lap for inspection.

All of her money was still in her bulging coin purse, her potions were still tucked in the side pockets, and some food and alchemy ingredients were still securely wrapped up with some linen. The only thing missing were her neatly bundled lock picks.

 _Damn him, damn him, damn him!_ Kajsa nearly kicked the nightstand, but checked herself and scrabbled even further, displacing a few items in the process. At the very bottom was a small leather pouch with some flawless gemstones – and the Skeleton Key of Nocturnal.

The thief permitted herself a rare triumphant grin as she plucked out the jeweled lock pick and twirled it between her fingers. Even though she respected Karliah’s wish that the key be no one’s property, she found herself continually putting off returning it to the Twilight Sepulcher in favor of breaking into heavily guarded manors.

 _Daedric artifacts have a disturbing tendency to control their owners, I’ve noticed._ While she greatly appreciated the usefulness of the Ebony Blade, the Skeleton Key was something entirely out of her league. _I’ll walk the Pilgrim’s Path soon enough... as soon as I get out of here and ask Vex for pointers on where to best conceal lockpicks on one’s person_ other _than one’s sleeves._

Tucking away her secret weapon in the leather pouch and dropping it back in her knapsack, carefully placing the other scattered contents back in as well, Kajsa hung the bag over one of the bedposts and examined the only item she hadn’t replaced. It was a modest gown that consisted of three parts: an unadorned white dress, a short-sleeved burgundy over-layer that was laced up the front, and a wide brown sash.

Frowning slightly, the thief shook it out from its neatly folded state and examined it. She’d only bought it a few days ago, just in case she needed to discreetly slip into a hold capital when not occupied with contracts and jobs. While her Guild leathers fit her like a second skin and protected her from harm well enough, it had the tendency to turn heads.

 _If it wasn’t being repaired, I would have worn my armor to dinner – just to piss Ulfric off._ She tossed the garment on the bed and waited expectantly for Jorleif lugging a wooden bathtub and some buckets of steaming water into her room with the help of a struggling manservant. _But I suppose I really have no choice in the matter._

* * *

Ulfric drummed his fingers on the top of the long wooden table in the throne room. The end nearest to the throne itself had been cleared and neatly set with plates, cutlery, and goblets for dinner. Tonight’s meal, however, had yet to appear; instead of keeping the kitchen staff on task, Jorleif was off keeping an eye on his guest to make sure she didn’t bolt like last time.

He would be lying if he were to say that he _wasn’t_ uneasy about the prospect of keeping the Dragonborn prisoner. If she could sprint through a set of rapidly closing gates with a single Word of Power, the thief was probably more than capable of killing him or bringing the whole of Windhelm down around his head.

 _It will not be for long,_ the jarl reminded himself. _If she agrees to support the Stormcloaks, then I wil discreetly order her door to be unlocked and the woman will be free to go, never knowing she was imprisoned in the first place. But if not..._

Light footsteps on the stone floor interrupted Ulfric’s thoughts, and he glanced up to see that Kajsa had entered through the guard-flanked side door, Jorleif on her tail. The jarl had chosen to eat in the throne room over his private dining room out of caution, as it was far easier to fit a handful of guards into the former more than the latter.

His steward stepped out from behind her and cleared his throat. “The Dragonborn is here, my jarl,” he formally announced.

Ulfric waved his words away. “Thank you, Jorleif. Will dinner be ready shortly?”

“It – it’s not out yet?” Letting out an irritated huff, the steward hurried off in the direction of the kitchens, presumably to berate some poor servant.

The jarl turned his attention back to the thief. He noticed appreciatively that she had forsaken her tight leather armor in favor of a plain white and burgundy dress. It was high at the neck, but the lacing on the front and the sash highlighted the deep curve of her small waist and wide hips.

 _Her garb flatters her greatly. She could be very attractive – if not for the loathing in her eyes._ “Thank you for joining me.”

She nodded curtly in acknowledgement as she seated herself on the bench opposite him. Now that the young woman was closer, he saw that the amulet around her neck was that of Talos.

“You worship the Ninth Divine,” he observed, surprised.

Kajsa’s lips pursed as she considered his statement. “Not in the traditional sense. I mostly wear it to honor those Dragonborn that came before me.” She rested her elbows on the table, seemingly dismissing it. If not for the slight, wavering flicker in her eyes, he would not have suspected that what she said was not the whole truth. “Why do _you_ worship Talos?”

“I always have,” Ulfric answered simply, “and I will continue to do so until my death. He was Tamriel’s greatest hero and he is a symbol of all that mankind is capable of.”

The thief raised an eyebrow. “A ‘hero’? You’re a man of war; surely you know that there are no such things as ‘heroes,’ only deluded idiots that get themselves killed.”

“What do you call yourself, then?” the jarl challenged. “There are many in Skyrim who name _you_ a heroine.”

She gave him a mocking, but sad smile. “They are mistaken.”

Both of them paused as Jorleif re-entered the hall with a groaning platter of venison in his arms. He set it down upon the table, along with two bottles of mead, and then scurried away.

Ulfric speared himself a piece of the venison and helped himself to some of the mead. Kajsa silently followed his lead. For a short time, both of them ate without speaking.

Then: “Why do you waste your talents on the Thieves Guild, Dragonborn?” The jarl took a sip from his bottle of mead to wash down the rich meat. “You are clearly a competent swordswoman and archer. Why join a band of criminals over, say, the Companions?”

She finished chewing her bite of venison, and then swallowed and replied, “I have many gifts, and some are more suited to the Guild. I don’t consider it a ‘waste.’”

“The Greybeards cannot be pleased with you,” he commented, recalling Master Arngeir’s heated censure of his leaving High Hrothgar to fight in the Great War.

The thief shrugged. “I can’t be bothered with what they – or you – think about my choices. They are mine and mine alone.”

“Do you even use the _thu’um_ at all?” Ulfric demanded.

“Only when I have the occasion to. You of all people should know it’s not exactly subtle,” she responded tartly. “But, come to think of it, you’re hardly understated yourself.”

“Explain.” The jarl’s fingers began drumming on the table again.

Kajsa took a swig of mead. “Exactly _how_ do you think you’re going to be able to keep me prisoner?”

“You’re being presumptuous,” he told her. “I have no intention of holding you hostage.”

“Tell that to the lock on my door _and_ my missing lockpicks and armor,” the thief shot back, slamming the bottle down. “What’s your game, _my jarl_? You wouldn’t have invited me to dinner without a damn good reason.”

 _When she does not hide her feelings, she has quite the temper._ Ulfric remained calm and collected. “Tell me: which side do you support in the war?”

“That’s it?” She laughed harshly. “You want me to join the Stormcloaks? Use the power of the Voice for a greater good? Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not my fight.”

“'Not your fight?'” the jarl repeated. “You yourself are a Nord. Do you not love your country? Do you not want it to be free?”

Kajsa’s face hardened at the accusation. “If you must know, I intend to remain neutral. I harbor no love of you _or_ Tullius.” With a contemptuous swing of her skirts, she stood up and walked away from the table.

“And what of the Aldmeri Dominion?” he called after her.

The thief’s back noticeably stiffened, but she continued onwards to the hallway that lead to the war room. After a sharp nod from Ulfric, the two guards that were there stopped her, gripped her arms, and escorted her out of the main hall.

Leaning back on the bench slightly, the jarl smiled. _So she hates the Dominion. At least I can count on_ that _to turn the tide in my favor._

* * *

Jorleif rushed up the steep, uneven stairs of the Palace of the Kings, a bundle under one arm. Stopping at the last wooden door at the right, he fished out a key from the pouch at his belt, inserted it into the lock, and turned it. After hearing a faint _click,_ he turned the handle and the door swung open.

“Miss?” The steward ventured tentatively into the darkened guest room, closing and locking the door behind him before spotting the shadowy figure slouching in a chair pulled up to the fireplace and approaching it. “Ah, there you are. Your armor, as promised –”

He stopped suddenly as he realized that he was talking to a pillow in a linen shirt with a patched knapsack perched on top. Suddenly panicked, he whirled around – and was promptly felled by a cast iron pot to the head.

The steward slumped to the floor as Kajsa grabbed her armor, clutching it to her chest before tossing it on the bed. Dropping her makeshift weapon by the unconscious man’s side, she snatched up the fallen key. _Using the Skeleton Key_ would _have been easier, but the only way to_ truly _get anything through to the jarl is to add a touch of drama to one’s actions._

Already in her smallclothes, it took her mere minutes to throw on her Thieves Guild armor and securely buckle it. Tugging on her boots, fastening her gauntlets, and pulling up her hood with practiced speed, the young woman grabbed her knapsack and her weapons.

Unlocking the door again, she slipped out into the hallway and closed it behind her, leaving the key in the outside lock. Stealthily and silently, Kajsa vanished into the darkness of the corridor like a shadow.


	7. Threatened

Hands spread to both corners, Ulfric Stormcloak leaned over the table in the war room. To any onlookers, it seemed he was intently studying the map of Skyrim – but his mind was far from that kind of strategy.

After Kajsa had escaped the Palace of the Kings for the second time, right under the noses of the guards, the infuriated jarl immediately decided that security needed to be tightened. Extra guards patrolling all of the entrances to Windhelm, ready to report if the Dragonborn even came _near_ the city, were the first to be in order. Reinforced doors and windows on all buildings, even those in the Grey Quarter and down at the docks, to discourage thievery. The crowning glory was the guest-room-turned-prison-cell in the upper floor of the palace: a project that had Wuunferth and Jorleif bickering about safety precautions for days, but well worth it.

Finally, he’d even sent a note off to Breezehome in Whiterun in warning:

> _Dragonborn,_
> 
> _You are no longer welcome in my city. If you set foot in Windhelm, you will be immediately arrested and imprisoned on charges of thievery and disturbing the peace._
> 
> _Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm_

He didn’t know exactly if it was the threatening ultimatum or the spreading rumors of the heightened security in Windhelm, but the guards hadn’t seen so much as a trace of Kajsa in the months since then. In a way, _that_ was what disturbed him most of all.

There was a hesitant throat-clearing by the hallway to the throne room, practically thunderous in the silence. The jarl looked up to see a skinny young Nord in a weatherworn belted tunic and scuffed leather boots, a thin parcel under one arm.

“Ah, Irmin.” Ulfric motioned to a chair. “Sit for a moment; you look worn out.”

“Thank you, my jarl.” Seating himself, the courier’s tired shoulders fell. “Seems that I’ve been running all over Skyrim. Nature of the job, I suppose.”

The jarl laughed with him. “Do you have something for me?”

“I do.” Irmin plucked up his delivery and slid it across the map, careful to avoid upsetting the tiny red and blue flags that dotted it. “Begging your pardon, my jarl, but are _all_ of your spies this... sinister?”

Ulfric paused in the middle of unpicking the knot of the string binding that wound around the leather wrapping and glanced at the other suspiciously. “Why did you assume that whoever gave this to you was a spy for me?” _After all, the main duty of a spy is to fit in._

“Secretive manner. Dressed in strange armor with a cowl concealing her face. Rode this black monster of a stallion.” The courier grimaced at the memory. “Looked more like an assassin than a spy to me.”

“What kind of armor?” the jarl interrupted, his eyes glinting dangerously and his voice hard. “Brown leather, lots of buckles and pouches?”

Irmin shook his head. “Black with red detailing. Studs everywhere. Very tight... it’s how I knew she was a woman. Well, that and her voice,” he added, flushing slightly.

“And what was that like?”

“Low, hoarse – like she’d been coughing up smoke.”

“Did you get her name?”

“I asked, but she said that you already knew her.” Confused, the courier shot a glance at his employer. “My jarl, _do_ you know this woman? I – might not have mentioned this earlier – but she _did_ take the message you had given me for –”

“In all likelihood, yes,” Ulfric said grimly, tossing him a small bag of coins as his pay. “Thank you, Irmin. Go to the kitchens and get yourself something to eat.”

As soon as the courier had bowed clumsily and left, the jarl wrenched out an iron dagger that had been embedded in the table (one of Galmar’s more dramatic gestures from the previous day) and used it to cut the twine binding the package. With the string gone, the thin wrapping fell away to reveal two items: a small leather-bound book that was held shut by a buttoned flap and a sealed letter.

Setting the letter aside, Ulfric picked up the book, snapped it open, and read the evenly spaced, delicate writing on the cover page:

**Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak**

_On the Stormcloaks’ leader and Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak  
_

His breath choked in his throat, and he hurriedly turned the page and continued to read:

> **Status:** _Asset (uncooperative), Dormant, Emissary Level Approval_
> 
> **Description:** _Jarl of Windhelm, leader of Stormcloak rebellion, Imperial Legion veteran_
> 
> **Background:** _Ulfric first came to our attention during the First War Against the Empire, when he was taken as a prisoner of war during the campaign for the White-Gold Tower. Under interrogation, we learned of his potential value (son of the Jarl of Windhelm) and he was assigned as an asset to the interrogator, who is now First Emissary Elenwen. He was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had broken), and then allowed to escape. After the war, contact was established, and he has proven his worth as an asset. The so-called “Markarth Incident” was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact._
> 
> **Operational Notes:** _Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off. The incident at Helgen is an example where an exception had to be made – obviously Ulfric’s death would have dramatically increased the chance of an Imperial victory and thus harmed our overall position in Skyrim. (NOTE: The coincidental intervention of the dragon at Helgen is still under scrutiny. The obvious conclusion is that whoever is behind the dragons also has an interest in the continuation of the war, but we should not assume therefore that their goals align with our own.) A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed._

Face coldly expressionless and forbidding, the jarl closed the dossier and set it down on the table, not sure whether to feel profound relief or outrage. He settled for breaking the seal on the letter and opening it, beginning to read the cramped scrawl of handwriting:

> _Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm:_
> 
> _You have a rather dogged courier. He tracked me down the morning I left Whiterun and delivered your rather charming notice. It’s a bit late in coming, but I get the message. Trust me: no security measures of yours could hope to keep me out if I wished to get into Windhelm. Just consider yourself lucky that the Thalmor dossier you hold in your hands hasn’t turned up in Brunwulf Free-Winter’s house; I’ve broken in there before, and I could do it again in my sleep._
> 
> _Speaking of which, I’ll probably return to_ your _city soon enough. It’s been a few months and much has happened since then. I imagine that you’re thinking to make a move in the war soon._ I _would – I hear that Jarl Elisif and your good friend General Tullius are busying themselves with investigating the Emperor’s untimely death, but without much luck._
> 
> _I hear it was quite the gruesome sight. All of the bodyguards aboard the ship were slaughtered (the body of their commander was found on the docks near the East Empire Trading Company warehouse) and the_ Katariah _thoroughly pillaged. Rumor has it that it was the work of the Dark Brotherhood, but some say that the Penitus Oculatus already wiped them out. Still others say that the Brotherhood yet lives..._
> 
> _But I digress. The true point of this letter is that threatening me with imprisonment or strong-arming me into joining the Stormcloaks is useless. I’m sick of being blackmailed, manipulated, and having my trust betrayed, least of all by you. My stance on the matter is not likely to be changed anytime soon._
> 
> _Leave me be, or the next courier that comes with a message from you will learn for himself if the Dark Brotherhood truly exists._
> 
> _Kajsa Red-Blade, Possessed of Too Many Titles to Name_

Feeling even more aggravated than before, Ulfric crumpled the parchment in his fist and hurled it with all his might at the stone wall. Galmar, striding through the door from the throne room, narrowly jerked his head to one side as the makeshift projectile flew by him.

The jarl sighed: still irritated, but now regretful. “My apologies, old friend. I did not realize you were still up at this hour.”

“I could say the same.” His housecarl glanced back at the balled-up letter in the hallway behind him, and then frowned, not entirely sure he was getting everything. “What was _that_ all about? Don’t tell me it’s more news about the Dragonborn.”

Ulfric’s glare spoke volumes.

“By the Nine,” Galmar groaned, “when are you going to give that up? You’ve been obsessing over her for the past three months.”

“I just received a letter from her.” The jarl, ignoring the question, gestured at the crumpled parchment in the hallway. “She blatantly threatened another visit to Windhelm and death to any courier I send to her – of the Dark Brotherhood variety.”

“An assassin, too?” his housecarl growled. “Gods, Ulfric, this woman may be the Dragonborn, but can’t you see the consequences of having her join us? One bad apple ruins the bunch, and we don’t want the Stormcloaks seen as murderous, Daedra-worshipping thieves. Besides, she’s an arrogant, treacherous bitch. I’d rather trust a damned Justiciar over her.”

Ulfric rubbed his temples exasperatedly. “Yes, yes. As always, you have a point. But even an ‘arrogant, treacherous bitch’ has her uses.

“We know she is an adept swordswoman and archer. She is an accomplished thief and assassin, good enough for both the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, and she... _seems_ to have a way with words. By Talos, she got into and out of the Thalmor Embassy in one piece!” He picked up the dossier, lying on the table amid red and blue flags, and waved it as proof.

“And, of course, she can use the power of the Voice. If that does _not_ scream ‘asset,’ then I do not know what _does_.” Letting the leather-bound book fall from his hand, the jarl looked the grizzled general in the eye. “You and I may not like her, but that does not change the fact that we may need her on our side if we are to win this war.”

“You mentioned the Thalmor earlier,” Galmar countered, still not convinced. “How can you be so sure that she’s not working _with_ those witch-elf puppet masters?”

“At our last meeting, I asked her about her feelings towards the Dominion.” Ulfric’s face was harshly earnest. “The Dragonborn may call herself ‘neutral,’ but there is no doubt in my mind that she hates them about as much as I do.”

The housecarl’s broad shoulders slumped. “So you believe that she will join us.” It was a flat statement, not a question.

“All in good time, old friend. If we press her, it will only cause her to dig in her heels. Only when she comes to me willingly will we have gained a true ally.”

 _But only the gods know if –_ when _that day will come._    


	8. Sunset of the Shadows

A melancholy look on his face, Torsten Cruel-Sea took the delicate silver necklace from her and turned it over in his hands. “It pains me to see this locket... to be reminded of Fjotli once more... but I’m glad it’s back where it belongs.”

Kajsa nodded wordlessly.

The farmer closed it in his fist, straightening up. “Tell Delvin that if he still desires to have my support for the Thieves Guild in Windhelm, he’s got it.”

“I assure you that he’ll be more than glad to hear that. Thank you for your... _patronage_.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Torsten insisted. “I don’t know how I would have gotten back Fjolti’s locket if it hadn’t been for you. Now that the Summerset Shadows –” he said the name of the rival guild with a profound hatred “– are wiped out, I can rest in peace, knowing that no others will be murdered for their wealth. No words could ever fully express my thanks.”

Kajsa extended her hand as a parting gesture, and the other shook it firmly before walking off down the darkening streets of the ancient city.

A chill wind blew some snowflakes around the young Nord woman; despite the warm, hooded black robe that she wore, she shivered slightly, wrapping her partially bare arms around herself securely. Uprooting her booted feet from the cobblestones, she tramped away from the doorway of Candlehearth Hall.

“Stop right there, criminal scum.” A guard in Stormcloak armor, his face concealed by a steel helmet, stepped in front of her with his sword brandished.

The thief continued walking. “Why should I?”

“Kajsa Red-Blade, by the order of the Jarl, you are under arrest. You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. What say you in your defense?” As he was delivering his speech, three other guards nearly identical to him stepped up, their weapons out and ready.

 _Damn. Ulfric isn’t fooling around anymore._ Kajsa briefly turned over the possibilities in her mind before making a split-second decision.

In a heartbeat, the thief bolted to one side with startling speed, whipping out Mehrunes’ Razor to ward off the falling swords and war axes of the surprised guards. She dodged around another one – only to run into a burly bearded Nord in the armor of a Stormcloak general, bear-pelt helmet and all.

Startled, she attempted to dart around him, but Galmar seized her by the wrist, wrenching it painfully. With a cry, Kajsa’s hand loosened and her prized dagger fell with a muffled clatter to the street.

“I’ve had enough of you escaping, _thief._ ” The housecarl brutally kicked her in the side, knocking her on the cold, damp stones. “Time for you to accept your fate.”

* * *

From the grand throne that dominated the main hall of the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric watched, unperturbed, as Kajsa – gagged with her hands bound behind her back, confiscated weapons and knapsack in the hands of one of the guards – was dragged before him. The look of disgust and fury in her dark eyes was practically scorching.

Galmar planted a foot on her back and, with a harsh push, forced the captured thief to her knees. She turned her glare from the jarl to him, deepening it even further.

Ulfric’s voice broke the still. “Where was she captured?”

“Outside Candlehearth Hall,” his housecarl rumbled. “The city guard is currently combing the houses and shops to see which ones she’s robbed.”

Kajsa rolled her eyes and muttered something behind her gag.

The jarl stood, drawing himself up to his full height. “Kajsa Red-Blade, you stand accused of the crimes of thievery, blackmail, treason, and disturbing the peace. What say you in your defense?” He gestured for one of the guards to remove the cloth from her mouth.

Galmar frowned warningly. “If she uses the Voice –”

“She will not be able to go very far without her weapons and supplies,” the other Nord countered. “Take off the gag.”

The guard closest to the thief acquiesced, albeit warily.

Kajsa now turned her attention back to Ulfric, the outright hatred on her face now replaced with an indifferent mask. “You’re wasting your time. I didn’t steal anything.”

“Liar,” the housecarl accused.

“Oh, piss _off,_ Stone-Fist,” the young woman sighed, irritated. “ _Yes_ , I was here on Thieves Guild business. _No_ , I did not commit any crimes in Windhelm.”

“Then why have you come?” Galmar demanded, now made even angrier by her rude dismissal of him.

“That is between the jarl and myself.”

All eyes turned to Ulfric, who curtly nodded at the guards; they immediately filed out of the throne room and into the barracks. After a cautioning look, Galmar followed them in their procession. Save for the jarl and the thief, the main hall of the Palace of the Kings was left devoid of life.

“The use of guards was a trifle dramatic,” Kajsa commented, staring coolly at her jailer.

“You threatened to kill my couriers,” Ulfric retorted firmly. “Sending my housecarl and a patrol was the only way I could get your attention.”

“Weren’t you worried about their lives as well? Indicative of your lack of regard for the men who champion your cause on the battlefield, perhaps...”

The jarl ground his teeth. “Did you come to mock me or for something of _importance_?”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little respect,” she chided, eyes hard again. “After all, I’ve singlehandedly decreased the murder rate of young women in _your_ city. Four in a space of a few months – and you do nothing to stop it?”

“‘Four?’” Ulfric cut off, ignoring her cutting taunts. _The Butcher claimed another victim that the city guard did not discover?_

“Fjotli Cruel-Sea. Violently killed on the streets, her body looted – does _that_ ring a bell?”

“If you wish to stay out of prison, I suggest you keep the sarcasm to a minimum,” the jarl growled threateningly. “Yes, I remember. What of it? I seem to recall that at the time, it was assumed to be a botched Thieves Guild job.”

Kajsa, more or less chastened for the time being, shook her head. “Torsten Cruel-Sea, her father, succeeded in tracking down the murderer: an Altmer who was a member of a new guild that called itself the ‘Summerset Shadows.’”

“How does that distinguish it from _your_ Guild?”

“We don’t kill,” the Nord thief said flatly. “It’s considered bad for business; besides, assassination _is_ what the Dark Brotherhood’s for. The Summerset Shadows murdered their targets, then looted the bodies.”

“Was that why you were in Windhelm for?” Ulfric questioned, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly falling into place. “To destroy the rival guild?”

“That, and retrieving a Cruel-Sea family heirloom that the Shadows stole off Fjotli. That’s all. I haven’t broken into any houses or heisted goods from any stores, so there was really no need to arrest me.” She shrugged, summing up her argument in a single, elegant motion.

The jarl sighed tiredly. “I suppose that I should thank you for eliminating these ‘Summerset Shadows,’ but if your actions only mean that the tightening grip of the Thieves Guild on my city, then I would do just as well to imprison you regardless.”

“What an ungrateful way to treat a defender of _your_ city,” Kajsa shot back, her lips curling back from her teeth in anger. “I have caught a serial killer that all of your guards couldn’t track down, eliminated a murderous band of thieves, and saved Clan Shatter-Shield from collapse, and you repay me with a jail cell?”

 _This woman is utterly impossible!_ It took all of Ulfric’s willpower to remain composed. “I have not heard of your helping Clan Shatter-Shield. Would you care to enlighten me?”

The young Nord thief stared at him coolly. “I spared the life of Nilsine Shatter-Shield.”

At first, the jarl wasn’t sure what she meant. Then, it dawned on him. “You had a contract to kill her.”

“Not precisely. My employer at the time wished me to carry out the murder in addition to the one that I was contracted to perform.”

“Why did you not do so? You are a sellsword, as well as an assassin and thief; I should think that you value gold highly.”

His carefully phrased insult seemed not to have the full intended effect. Kajsa glared at him with renewed fury, but her eyes were dark with an emotion that he could not place. “It seemed cruel for the Shatter-Shields to lose their only remaining daughter. Tova and Torbjorn are grief-stricken enough as it is. If Nilsine were to die, it would devastate them.”

An uncomfortable silence followed as the Nord woman stiffly rose from the floor and addressed Ulfric again with a hint of acid. “If you don’t mind, _my jarl_ , I wish to be released.”

Steeling himself, the jarl approached her, drew his war axe, and sawed through the thick ropes that bound her, taking care not to cut her with the blade. She stepped away haughtily, her now-free wrists settling at her side. He noted that she was not clad in the brown leather of her Thieves Guild armor, but a soft grey variant of it that lacked sleeves underneath a hooded black robe.

 _A far cry from our circumstances in Helgen... but just as crucial._ “You are free to go, Dragonborn, but I will warn you that if you are caught thieving in Eastmarch, all of your Guild’s influence will not be able to save you from the prisons.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Kajsa’s face. “Am I permitted in Windhelm now?”

“Yes. However –” he caught her by the arm as she made to leave, forcing her to turn back and meet his gaze again “– you are indebted to me.”

“No. I am _not_.” It sounded more challenging than disbelieving. “If this is your way to get me to join the Stormcloaks –”

“Yes. You _are_.” His grip on her tightened, and Ulfric noted that she winced slightly; even though the thief was undoubtedly quicker and more powerful, he had the advantage of size and strength. “And you joining my army was not my intention.”

“Than what was?”

“A mutually beneficial relationship. I am willing to overlook the crimes that you have committed in my city in the past, and in return, you work for me as a sellsword. I have plenty of bounties that need claiming, and I will pay you well if you take care of them.”

The younger Nord paused. “And the catch?” she asked archly.

“I expect obedience. Following my orders without question. Otherwise, I will declare you a wanted woman in the hold, and you will never be able to set foot here again.”

Kajsa’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that you won’t exploit me?”

“Because you know a great deal of information about me that I am sure General Tullius would find useful,” the jarl replied with steel in his voice. “Likewise, I am aware of many incriminating details about your life. We have each other in check with potential blackmail material, therefore, we should be able to cooperate so neither of us ends up dead.”

For the first time since he’d met her, the thief laughed: a light, low sound that gave him an uneasy feeling. “You are a true politician, Jarl Ulfric. If we hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot, we could have been great friends.”

“What is your answer?” he pressed.

“I will not comply with you blindly, but I will –” she sighed and continued grudgingly “– make a sincere attempt to not antagonize you.”

 _Good enough – for the time being, at least._ “Then we understand each other.” He finally released her. “Your possessions are in the guards’ barracks. You should be able to retrieve them without much fuss if they do not notice you.”

Kajsa’s eyes sparkled wickedly as she turned and sauntered away. “Now you see that us thieves and assassins have our place in the world.” She opened the side door and slipped through it, closing it quietly behind her.

Ulfric smiled to himself. “Until we meet again, Dragonborn,” he said to the empty throne room. “Let us see who _truly_ has mastery over the other.”


	9. Parting Gestures

“What’ll you give me for these?” Kajsa laid the staves on the wooden counter of the market stall. They were completely identical – made of reddish wood with brass grips, topped with a soul gem of a pale, incandescent blue – but as she’d found out earlier that day, they had _very_ different effects.

“Hmm...” Niranye picked up the one nearer to her and turned it over in her nimble-fingered hands. “I’m no expert on staves, but I’ll go out on a limb and say that these are worth a shiny septim.” She delicately put it back. “I’ll give you six hundred each.”

“Done.” The Nord woman readily accepted the vendor’s coin, and then laid down a glass war axe and a small stack of spell tomes. “How about these?”

“Fifty each for the books and four hundred twenty for the war axe.” The Altmer eyed the merchandise appreciatively as she handed over another small sack of coins. “If you don’t mind my asking, how _did_ you come by these? You couldn’t have stolen it _all_.”

“I didn’t,” Kajsa said shortly. “They’re from bandit strongholds, giant camps, and the occasional dragon lair. One cave full of frostbite spiders, too.”

“All in Eastmarch? My, my. You’ve been busy.” Niranye absently readjusted the placement of her new merchandise on the stall counter, smiling in a pleased manner. “Found yourself a patron in the estimable Jarl of Windhelm, have we? Oh, don’t look so surprised, dearie; I have very good ears and the guards tend to talk too much.”

“I’m sure they do,” the thief snorted. “The jarl probably is still gloating over the fact that he has me at his beck and call.”

It hadn’t even been a month since her unfortunate arrest, but Ulfric had been hurling bounties and warrants at her nearly every day. She’d cleared out caves and (nearly) abandoned military forts, gone toe-to-toe with witches and Falmer, and narrowly avoided being whacked across the Aalto by a giant’s club more than a few times. It was not particularly glamorous work, but it was demanding and left little time for her to pursue her own devices. _Which is what Stormcloak had in mind, I’m sure._

The good news was that she was at least getting paid for her trouble, and the paltry sum was boosted by the fact that Kajsa sold what items of value she could find on the job to Niranye, her newest and most efficient fence yet. With the total amount of gold rolling into her coin purse at the end of each job, renting a room and getting meals at Candlehearth Hall, as well as paying for Shadowmere’s board at the Windhelm stables, was a piece of cake.

On the whole, collecting bounties was largely satisfying. The only problem was when she was required to deal with the jarl himself.

Occasionally, when the Nord woman returned to Jorleif to retrieve her pay, he would hesitantly give her an invitation to dinner from his master. Then she would grudgingly clean herself up, wear clothes in place of her armor, and force herself to endure a meal with Ulfric. He was always polite and gentlemanly, but Kajsa couldn’t help but feel that behind his charming façade, the jarl was flaunting the fact that for once, _he_ had some power over her.

She hated it.

The Altmer fence clucked in sympathy. “If it’s any consolation, dearie, I’m sure the citizens of Eastmarch – and my suppliers – are grateful that they can travel in safety.”

Kajsa shrugged half-heartedly in response. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“What are you up to now?” Niranye leaned over the counter, intrigued.

“Getting out of this city.”

The other laughed, a haughty, bell-like sound. “How are you _ever_ going to convince the jarl to let you go?”

“Simple. I’ll tell him I’m going to join the Companions in Whiterun.”

Niranye arched an auburn eyebrow. “I won’t even dignify that pitiful excuse with laughter. I hope you have another idea, dearie, because he’ll never buy it.”

“Well, he’ll have to, because it’s the truth.”

Strictly speaking, there was more to the story. A while after approaching Arngeir and then Paarthurnax to inquire after the Dragonrend shout – and discovering that an Elder Scroll held the key to learning it – Kajsa had waited for a rare lull in her work and then made a short trip up to Winterhold to pay a visit to two old acquaintances of hers: Enthir and Nelacar. While both of them had no idea where such a thing could be located, they also pointed her in the direction of Septimus Sigmus, a “brilliant, but mad” scholar who lived in a tiny outpost in the Ghost Sea. After hunting the old man down, the Dragonborn had walked away with two strange devices and directions to a Dwarven ruin named Alftand.

The Nord thief held a strong dislike of Dwarven ruins, but she knew that she had to get to the Elder Scroll as fast as possible. If she wanted to get through alive, she also realized that joining the Companions and testing her mettle and fighting abilities against them was her best bet. Accomplishing both of these tasks would require leaving Windhelm, and _that_ meant confronting Ulfric Stormcloak.

She didn’t relish the prospect of any of these.

Cocking her head to one side, the Altmer woman considered her customer’s words. “And how exactly do you plan to persuade him of that?”

“He’s invited me to dinner tonight. I have a sword from Oengul to deliver to him, and I’ll try to talk him into it afterwards. Hopefully, he’ll be more open to my request then.”

“Not a bad beginning.” Niranye tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You might need a little something extra, though...”

“Forget it,” the other dismissed. “I’m no good at drugging people. Fatally poisoning, yes, but not so much drugging.”

The Altmer woman sighed. “Nothing so... horridly _gauche_ , dearie. Not when charm and feminine wiles will do the trick.”

Kajsa’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you have up your sleeve?”

Smiling slyly, Niranye crouched behind her stall and then straightened up with a wrapped bundle in her arms. “A little gift from me to you. Think of it as a thank-you present for getting me back in the Thieves Guild’s good graces.”

The Nord thief hesitantly took the package, eyeing it suspiciously. “Would you mind telling me what this is?”

“If the size isn’t right, feel free to return it,” the fence went on, pretending not to hear the question. “I’m sure there’s another in my... _shipment_ that would fit you better.”

Her supplier sighed tiredly. “It’s a dress, isn’t it?” _That definitely would explain why she thought it would help..._

“Stolen from Radiant Raiment not a week ago.” Niranye smiled winningly. “Only the finest for the future Guildmaster, dearie.”

Kajsa tried to hand it back. “Thanks, but I’m not exactly fond of dresses –”

“Dearie, you’re only persuasive when you have a blade in your hand, and I don’t think the jarl will appreciate that. Just trust me on this and take the damn dress.”

“That being said, I _do_ appreciate some of their wares,” Kajsa relented reluctantly, tucking the bundle under her arm and adjusting her grip on her knapsack. _Niranye knows what she’s doing. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be going to her with my ill-gotten loot. Besides, any thief knows it’s ill-advised to irritate your fences._ “If you could keep smuggling their clothing into Windhelm, I’m sure you’d make a killing.”

“You know me so well.” The Altmer gingerly rearranged a set of iron gauntlets. “Good luck, dearie. And _do_ come back to Windhelm sometimes. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”

“I will if I can set foot in Eastmarch without fear of a bounty on my head,” the other replied grimly. “Ulfric threatened that once; he won’t hesitate to do it again.”

* * *

Hands interlaced behind his back, Ulfric paced the upstairs dining room, waiting for his dinner guest. The meal itself, a roasted pheasant with a side of baked potatoes and some mead, had already been brought up by Jorleif and was resting on the table, but Kajsa had yet to appear.

She’d always accepted his past invitations, albeit somewhat coolly and with no uncertain amount of disdain. The jarl took some sort of satisfaction in that; it meant that he was succeeding in getting under the normally collected and emotionless woman’s skin and finding out exactly how she thought and worked. _Valuable for any future dealings with her._

However, he still found himself impressed with the Dragonborn. Seemingly incapable of being fatigued or injured, she had continuously trekked out across Eastmarch to fulfill the bounties he’d put out. As a result, the hold roads were safer for travelers and traders than they had been in a long time, and he was more than willing to pay her the measly sums granted for bounties to keep it like that.

There _were_ alternate motives to his employing the thief as a sellsword: keeping her from having contact with the Thieves Guild, and the Dark Brotherhood as well, if possible. Ulfric had heard the rumors about the former entrenching itself in Windhelm, but he had yet to hear any hard evidence that supported the whispered stories. As for the latter, there had been no suspicious deaths reported. The only conclusion was that his measures were working.

Unfortunately, due to Kajsa’s effectiveness at her job, there had been a lull in bounties. As a result, the Nord woman had time on her hands, and she used it to quietly slip out the city. A guard had seen her leave through the east gate in the early hours of the morning; the thief had returned only today, leaving a few days unaccounted for.

In truth, the jarl was most curious to find out what exactly she’d been doing – his main reason for inviting her to dinner.

Jorleif entered the dining room, clearing his throat to catch Ulfric’s attention. “My jarl?”

His master looked up, pausing his pacing. “Has she arrived?”

“Ah... yes.” The steward looked slightly strained, uncomfortable even. “She’s waiting in the throne room. Shall I send her up?”

“That would be best.”

Jorleif hastily ducked out of the room, leaving the door ajar. The jarl took his seat at the table, cutting himself a piece of the pheasant and spearing a potato for his plate. _I wonder what has him so wound up. Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t ask._

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and he looked up again – and was struck speechless.

Kajsa stood in the doorway, back straight and chin lifted haughtily as if she were a queen. Her short hair was washed and brushed to smoothness, the torchlight playing off of the dark umber color. Gone were her armor and weapons; in their place was an elegant dress of a deep, steely blue that was reminiscent of the Eastmarch banners. It hugged her figure, and the rounded neckline displayed her bare shoulders and a bit of her chest, as well as the Amulet of Talos resting upon it. The long silk skirt fluttered behind her and shifted around her hips in a distracting manner as she stepped inside with the raw warrior’s grace that she possessed.

Briefly bowing his head in acknowledgment, Ulfric found his voice again. “Dragonborn.” _Good gods... she is gorgeous..._

“My jarl.” The Nord woman curtseyed, the motion made slightly ungainly by the fact she clutched the finely tooled leather scabbard of a sword in one hand. “I have something for you.”

He gestured to what she held. “Oengul’s likeness of Queen Freydis’ sword?”

“Better than that.” She drew the sword from the scabbard, giving it a few experimental swings before ceremoniously handing it off to the jarl. “Queen Freydis’ sword itself.”

Ulfric grasped the leather-bound grip and examined the steel. “It is in wonderful condition. How did he get it?”

Kajsa shrugged off the question, the familiar motion at odds with her graceful, ladylike appearance. “I fetched it from an old barrow for him, and he did a little work on it before handing it off again for delivery.” She passed the scabbard to him. “It didn’t need a lot of maintenance. For lying around in a dusty chest in the middle of a draugr-infested tomb for Meridia knows how long, it was remarkably well-preserved.”

The jarl sheathed the sword, laying it on the edge of the table. “Please, sit down.”

Obeying the invitation, the thief proceeded to help herself to some of the pheasant and potatoes off of the platter and grab one of the bottles of mead. The two of them set to eating, and there was a pleasant silence that – for once – didn’t feel like it was marred by any animosity.

Needing to wash down a slightly dry bite of potato, Ulfric uncorked his drink. “To what shall we toast to?”

Kajsa swallowed her bite of pheasant and considered the question. “Favors.”

“As you wish,” the jarl conceded. “To favors – and you have certainly done many of them for me, Red-Blade.” He clinked his bottle against hers and took a deep swig before continuing. “It would have taken a whole company of mercenaries to collect all of those bounties, let alone in such a short amount of time. The people of Eastmarch and myself owe you a debt of gratitude.”

It might have been just Ulfric’s imagination, but the Dragonborn’s cheeks briefly glowed at his praise. Then she leaned over the table, her expression slightly coy. “It’s funny you should mention that. I actually have something to ask of you.”

Suspicion crept into the jarl’s mind. “What would you have me do?”

“Release me from your service.” Now her illusion of gentility was shattered, and she no longer appeared as a charming lady, but rather as the prideful, cunning sellsword that she was – only in finer clothing. “The hold is safe, so I believe our business is concluded.”

Mentally cursing himself for having not seen it coming sooner, Ulfric remained inexpressive. “Why so eager to crawl back into the Riften sewers?”

“Very amusing. I intend to leave for Whiterun and join the Companions.”

The jarl laughed, half in genuine amusement and half in triumph. _Your motives are not hidden from me, Dragonborn. Not anymore._

“I don’t see why you think this is so humorous.” Kajsa’s voice dripped acid. “After all, the first time we dined together, you _did_ ask why I wasn’t already a member instead of ‘wasting my talents on the Thieves Guild.’”

“So you think I will allow you to run off like this?” the other demanded. “Join the Companions so you will be honor-bound to remain neutral in this war?”

Letting out a scornful cry of disgust, the young woman threw her hands up in the air. “Of _course_ you would jump to that conclusion. _Your_ war is all you ever think about! Have you ever considered the fact that there might be other forces at work – other than you, the almighty Ulfric Stormcloak?”

“Careful, Red-Blade,” Ulfric warned, rising from his chair to tower over the table. “One more word and it will be your last as a free woman.”

The Dragonborn stood up defiantly, her dark eyes hard. “‘ _Free_?’” she repeated quietly, an edge to her tone. “I am not ‘free.’ I am a prisoner of fate now, and as much as I abhor it, the gods dictate what I do, where I go, what I say. When I _do_ have the chance to make my own choices, I make them of my own free will – _not_ according to what you or anyone else says.”

“Then what _is_ your aim in joining the Companions?” The jarl crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her answer.

Kajsa sighed, her gaze softening a bit. For once, she looked melancholy as she faced him. “When you were younger, did your father have any hopes or dreams that he talked about?”

Ulfric swallowed. “No. My father... did not wish to burden me with idle talk. I only knew him when I was very young...” Unexpectedly, his voice trailed off. _It is still a painful subject for me... even after all these years..._

“My da used to talk about the Companions,” the Nord woman said quietly. “He’d say how, from when he was a small boy, he’d always wanted to join them and share in their glory. When he was unable to do that because of his age and his injuries, he taught me how to use a bow so that _I_ could become one someday.” Her voice broke, and for the first time since Ulfric had met her, the thief appeared genuinely upset. “I didn’t honor his last wishes then... so I’m honoring them now, and nothing will stop me from doing so.

“I’m leaving, whether you like it or not. The only reason I came here tonight to ask this of you is so I can go peacefully without you placing a bounty on _my_ head. I see now that I have no hope of that.” With that, she whirled around and strode out of the doorway, her skirts fluttering behind her as she left.

Speechless with surprise, the jarl slowly sat down at the dining table, torn between calling for the guards or just not bothering with the effort. _Even without weapons, her mastery of the Voice makes her a dangerous woman to cross._ He laughed dryly. _Perhaps I was wrong to consider myself the dominant one in the strange little relationship that we have._

Still musing quietly, he drew out an ebony arrowhead – small with jagged edges, but with polished faces that drank up the light – from the pocket of his robes. Propping up his elbow on the wood, Ulfric examined it thoughtfully for a moment, taking care not to slice his fingers open on it; it was dulled from use, but even then, the arrowhead was still sharp as ever.

He made his decision. “Jorleif!”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway as his steward came running from the door. “My jarl, the Dragonborn just left –”

“Yes, I know,” the other sighed, waving Jorleif’s concerns away. “In fact, I have a brief errand for you. Take this up to Wuunferth for me and give him these instructions...”

* * *

Finishing wrapping the now-folded dress in the paper it had been given to her in, Kajsa – now back in a present from Delphine and Esbern, a set of Blades armor that she was currently breaking in – stuffed the package in her knapsack. While she didn’t know when she’d ever have an occasion to wear such a fine gown again, the thief couldn’t deny that it _was_ beautiful in its own way.

Sitting down on the bed, the Dragonborn scanned the small downstairs room at Candlehearth Hall for any of her possessions she might have missed; she’d rented it out for so long, she’d begun to think of it as her own, even though it was not nearly as nice as her bedroom in any of her other houses. Before cleaning it out in preparation for her departure, her hooded black traveling robe and the Guild leathers she’d looted from the Summerset Shadows’ den had been stashed in the wardrobe (along with a few daggers that she hadn’t had the occasion to sell yet), extra potions had been arrayed along the dresser, and a few books had been neatly stacked on the nightstand. The Nord woman had shrugged the robe on over her armor and fit the items that she wanted to keep in her knapsack, and she planned on making a last-minute stop at Sadri’s Used Wares to sell the excess.

If _I’m not running for my life from a passel of Windhelm guards._ Kajsa scowled at the memory of her meeting with Ulfric. _Who does that smug, self-important milk-drinker think he is, to make_ me _his errand girl for all time? I’ve escaped from his city twice, but it’s funny how fast he forgot that fact once he and Stone-Fist got lucky and caught me._

There was a delicate knock on the door. “You in there, miss?”

Pushing herself off the bed, the thief walked over, unlocked the wooden door, and opened it a crack. “What is it, Elda?”

“The jarl’s steward came by with this for you.” The inn’s proprietor slid a sealed letter through the door. “Said it was important.”

“Thank you.” Tossing the strangely heavy letter on the bureau, the Dragonborn grabbed a small pouch of money from by her knapsack and handed it to the other woman. “Here’s the rest of my rent.”

“Much obliged.” Elda took the coin purse readily and left the doorway.

Closing and locking the door again, Kajsa picked up the letter and broke the seal. Something tumbled out of the crease and fell to the wooden top of the bureau, but she ignored that and began to read the brief note:

> _Kajsa,_
> 
> _You are free to leave Windhelm. I will not stop you. I know what it is like to feel that you have failed your family somehow, and despite their neutrality, joining the Companions is an honorable and noble goal. I have no doubt that you will find glory with them._
> 
> _A note on my gift: Galmar and his men found it when they moved the skeleton of the dragon off the streets. Since the guards use iron or steel arrows, we assumed that it was from one of yours. Even though you have the eyes of an eagle when it comes to archery, please accept this as a token of my gratitude._
> 
> _Return someday,_
> 
> _Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm_

Emotions conflicting, unsure of what to think, she set down the letter and turned her attention to what had been delivered with it. It was a necklace of sorts: an ebony arrowhead with a thin braided cord tied around the base, the ends of it hanging loose.

Picking it up hesitantly, the thief turned her attention to the slightly dusty mirror of bronze hanging on the wall and securely tied the cord around her neck. The arrowhead-turned-pendant fell just under the hollow of her throat; she could feel the gentle pulse of some kind of enchantment throbbing against her skin.

 _Judging from the letter, it’s probably one that fortifies archery._ The Dragonborn touched the smooth surface of it, noting that the normally razor-like edges had been rounded off. She carefully tucked it under her armor, her fingers brushing the cord of her Amulet of Talos.

Her _father’s_ Amulet of Talos.

She paused for a moment, scrutinizing herself in the mirror. A grimly determined face with dark eyes stared challengingly back at her, as if to question why she – a thief and assassin of mixed races with no honor – thought she could feasibly join the Companions.

_Because Nord blood runs in my veins. Because my father would have wanted this. Because I’m a sellsword and a warrior – and the Dragonborn._

_Because I have the will to do so._ Boethiah’s words, ones she’d never fully forgotten, rang unbidden in her head. Kajsa smiled slightly. _I adapt. I survive. It’s what I’ve always done._

Opening one of the drawers of the bureau, she withdrew an inkwell, a quill pen, and a roll of parchment from it and laid them on the top. Tearing off a small sheaf of paper, the young woman uncorked the inkwell, dipped her pen into it, and scribbled down a brief note:

>   _Jarl Ulfric,_
> 
> _Thank you for understanding and for your gift. It is most gracious. Perhaps I shall take you up on your offer someday._
> 
> _Kajsa Red-Blade_

Picking up the parchment gingerly, the thief scrutinized her note carefully. _I think that’ll do..._ She quickly glanced over at Ulfric’s letter to see if there was anything else she missed – and her breath caught painfully in her throat as she noticed the cramped postscript at the bottom edge of the page:

> _You should wear dresses more often. Blue looks stunning on you._

The Dragonborn swallowed hard before stuffing the writing supplies back in the open drawer and closing it. Not bothering with a seal, she simply folded her own note and resolved to see if Jorleif was still hanging around so he could deliver it. As an afterthought, she tucked Ulfric’s letter into an outside pocket of her knapsack.

Swinging her bag up on her back, Kajsa grabbed the Ebony Blade and her Nightingale’s bow from the bedcovers, sheathing them as well. With a last glance at the cramped inn room, she strode out with her note in hand, closing the door behind her.

Her guess was sound; the jarl’s steward was sitting at the bar with a brand-new bottle of mead in hand. Tapping him on the shoulder, the Nord woman slipped him the note with a murmured “for the Jarl” as she strode past him and out the door of Candlehearth Hall.

Outside, the cold, snowy streets of Windhelm were dark, illuminated only by the light of the moons, the windows of the few homes whose owners were still up, and the flickering torches of the guards on their rounds. Pausing for a moment to pull up her hood over her snowflake-dotted hair, Kajsa trudged away from the warm, inviting glow of the inn and towards the studded bronze gates, an unfamiliar clash of feelings in her heart.


	10. Season Unending

The tense, uneasy deadlock of the civil war did not last forever. Early in Rain’s Hand, once some of the snow accumulated over the winter had melted, the Imperials made the first move and launched an assault on Fort Dunstad. Fortunately for them, the defenders – a motley mix of Stormcloaks and Pale guards – easily picked out the richly hued uniforms of the Imperials from a distance and dissuaded the first wave with a volley of arrows. However, the attackers’ reinforcements, equally skilled in archery, managed to claim many of the soldiers’ lives before the Imperials were forced into a retreat.

Jarl Skald the Elder, understandably a little embarrassed that Fort Dunstad had nearly been taken on his watch, had sent a letter dripping with desperate apologies to Windhelm not long after. It was all Ulfric could do to _not_ throw a tankard at the shivering messenger’s head and instead proceed to sit down and write a civil response. The aging jarl of Dawnstar was perhaps his most fervent supporter, and Ulfric foresaw that having control of an extra port would prove useful one day – but _Talos_ , how that man groveled!

The Jarl of Windhelm soon had more pressing matters on his mind than dealing with Skald. Not long afterwards, Galmar’s scouts returned to the city with reports of Imperials amassing in their camps in Falkreath Hold and the Rift. Ulfric responded accordingly by taking a preemptive strike: sending a small force of Stormcloaks that had previously been holding Fort Greenwall to wipe out the Imperial encampment nearest to Ivarstead, and then stationing troops by the mountain pass near the Throat of the World. He was not surprised to hear from Galmar’s scouts that the Imperials assembling in Falkreath had quietly backed off.

Both sides took that to mean that, even with the constant threat of dragons attacking indiscriminately across the land, the spirit of the civil war had truly returned to Skyrim. With that grim realization, Ulfric’s days quickly became hectic and labored, and his nights sleepless.

As Rain’s Hand slipped into Second Seed, and then into Midyear and Sun’s Height, the wheels of war rolled and picked up speed at a rate unseen seen the war’s beginning. The jarl did all but imprison himself and Galmar in the war room, pouring over the map and rehashing old strategies; before, their all-day talks had been more or less hypothetical, but now, they were transforming into serious battle plans.

During this whole time, the Dragonborn had _not_ been the farthest thing from Ulfric’s mind, much to his surprise and irritation.

He would never have admitted it to his housecarl or his steward, but he thought about Kajsa often. Occasionally, as he stared at the faded map of Skyrim day after day, his mind wandered and mentally conjured her in the war room beside him: trading barbs with Galmar, ordering a bottle of Black-Briar mead from an anxious Jorleif, leaning over the table and tapping a location on the parchment with a wicked, plotting look in her dark eyes, her low voice pointing out flaws in Imperial strategy to him…

Where she was now? What glories she was finding with the Companions? Perhaps she was laughing at him for buying her spurious story for leaving his service. Ulfric hoped that she hadn’t lied to him, but based on past experiences and his knowledge of her more illegal pursuits, he had thought it a likely possibility.

The day he had stopped even remotely considering it was the day Irmin came back from an undercover stint in Whiterun with tragic news: Kodlak Whitemane had been killed by marauders attacking Jorrvaskr, and a new Harbinger had been appointed. The courier had attended the man’s funeral himself, and his description had left no doubt in the Jarl of Windhelm’s mind that the new leader of the Companions was Kajsa herself. Ulfric took some solace in the fact that the woman had at least kept her word to him and joined the warriors instead of vanishing into Riften’s underworld.

Even still, he found himself missing her, in a strange sort of way. He tired of sitting at the empty dining table and staring at the vacated chair across from him, of not seeing her confer with Jorleif about bounties that needed collecting, of not verbally sparring with her over dinner. Every detail of her – her short hair the color of raw umber, the scars on her cheek, the way that blue dress had moved around her hips as she walked – seemed branded on his mind, driving him mad with frustration.

 _She_ will _return,_ the jarl kept telling himself as the months dragged on and the seasons slipped together nearly imperceptibly. _She said that she might one day. But in any case, she always has done so. And she always will._

* * *

“So it’s settled then?” Galmar growled impatiently.

“Aye.” For the first time in what seemed to be an endless night of planning and theorizing, Ulfric smiled. “The day is fast approaching. We will take Whiterun.”

Recently having resurfaced in the past few weeks, the idea of sacking Whiterun had been all the two men talked about for days on end. Both agreed that the time was coming. Galmar’s couriers had noted a withdrawal of Imperial troops from the surrounding holds back towards Haafingar to protect Solitude; there had been an increased number of dragon attacks on the capital of late. Not only that, but the Stormcloaks’ numbers had increased greatly since the previous year, and while most of them had little experience with a blade, the new troops were quick to learn and eager to serve. What had once seemed an idle daydream was now turning into a reality.

“Well, it’s about damn time!” the housecarl exclaimed. “What’s our first move?”

Ulfric jabbed his finger at a few isolated locations around Whiterun. “We will move soldiers here, here, and here. As quietly as possible; we do not want Balgruuf panicking and calling in Tullius just yet. And then we send an ultimatum.”

Now, Galmar smiled in understanding. “You sneaky bastard. You’re going to finally make him choose a side.”

“Exactly. If he swears fealty to me, I will move the troops in to protect him from the Empire’s wrath. If not… we attack.”

From the end of the short hallway, on the other side of the closed door that led out to the throne room, a tentative knock sounded.

The jarl lifted his head. “Who is it?”

Jorleif opened the door a crack, his face slightly paler than usual. “A – a visitor for you, my jarl. It’s – it’s her. The Dragonborn.”

Another smile spread over Ulfric’s face. _So… she has finally broken her neutrality. This could not have happened at a better time._ “Send her in immediately.”

His housecarl frowned at him with disapproval, but remained silent.

The clinking of boots echoed down the corridor as Kajsa’s slight figure emerged and stepped into the throne room. Save for her head and neck – a gleaming visored helmet was tucked under one arm – she was fully armored in the blackest ebony. The cuirass, seemingly shifting with a sort of smoky shadow, was nothing like the jarl had ever seen before: a long tunic of silver mail with a molded ebony chestpiece and guards for her shoulders and hips riveted to it. A katana with a carved ivory crosspiece, crackling with some sort of strange energy, hung from her belt, and the black spikes of a wicked-looking shield protruded from behind her shoulders.

But other than her obvious change in apparel, there was something different about the woman that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her face was exactly how he remembered it, yet the cheekbones seemed a little sharper, the eyes uncannily lighter than they had been before, her lips a little redder. Perhaps it had been the way she entered – her gait, formerly imbued with a warrior’s raw grace, was now somewhere between an arrogant, almost sensual strut and that of a prowling beast…

Ulfric pushed his idle thoughts to the side and straightened up to welcome her. “Dragonborn. You have returned.”

“Jarl Ulfric.” Her voice, low and slightly hoarse, with a trace of mocking that he was almost certain she saved for him, hadn’t changed a bit. “You’ve stayed.”

“Have you come to join the war?”

Kajsa smirked slightly, and in that instant, he saw the change he had been searching for moments before; the expression was akin to a wolf showing its teeth. “Your persistence is admirable, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” the jarl responded coolly, keeping his disappointment to himself. _Maybe it was too much to hope for._ “If you change your mind, be sure to speak to Galmar.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” his housecarl muttered. Apparently, his grudge had remained strong in the months since the Dragonborn’s release.  

The Harbinger shrugged. “The feeling’s mutual, Stone-Fist.”

“At least we can agree on that much,” Galmar said darkly. “But if –”

Ulfric stepped in before the exchange could escalate into something much uglier. “Galmar, why don’t you step outside for a few moments? I am sure the Dragonborn has a matter she wishes to privately discuss with me.”

The burly Stormcloak officer shot him a warning look. “Fine. But if you get Shouted through the wall, don’t come crying to me.” With his withering words, he strode out of the war room, the door slamming behind him.

“He’s still as charming as ever,” Kajsa remarked dryly.

The jarl ignored her pointed sarcasm. “What _does_ bring you to me, Dragonborn?”

“I have a message from the Greybeards.”

 _That_ gave him pause. _What could Arngeir and the rest of them possibly want with me? If he’s seeking to drag me back to High Hrothgar for a lecture on not straying from the Way of the Voice..._ “It is about time they turned their gaze from the heavens and back to our bleeding homeland,” he snapped. “What do they want?”

“They want to negotiate a truce until the dragon menace is dealt with.” Her gaze was steely. “As do I.”

Ulfric nearly frowned, but managed to keep his face neutral. _A truce? Do they_ really _think you can shunt to the side what has been brewing for decades?_

“I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course,” he mused aloud. “And the dragon attacks _are_ a growing plague.” He’d lost count of the times he’d sent reinforcements to Dawnstar after another of Skald’s frantic letters detailed a dragon attack, but he was sure that Morthal and Solitude were faring much worse.

“However,” he continued, beginning to pace back and forth as he thought out loud, “the political situation is still delicate. Not all the jarls are fully committed to supporting me as High King. I cannot afford to appear weak –”

“Politics be damned, Ulfric!” Kajsa slammed her gauntleted fist down on the table. “Alduin has returned!”

For a moment, the war room was so silent, the jarl, now stopped in his tracks, swore he could have heard a stick of charcoal drop. _Alduin? The World-Eater of song and legend?_ He didn’t want to believe it at first, but now the rise of the dragons – _and the Dragonborn,_ he reminded himself – made more sense than ever.

“I know you don’t want to believe me,” the young woman said, surprisingly without her usual venom. “But you and I both know what we saw at Helgen.”

“ _That_ was Alduin?” _I have never forgotten the sight of that black dragon... and I never will, for as long as I live._

The Dragonborn nodded mutely.

“That changes the situation, now, does it not?” Ulfric commented wryly. “Even that stubborn bastard Tullius may be forced to talk sense in the face of such a threat.”

“General Tullius has already agreed to attend,” Kajsa said icily.

“Good. We still hold half of Skyrim, despite everything the Empire could throw at us. I doubt the Empire has the stomach for much more bloodletting.”

“So you’ll come to the peace council?”

“Yes.” The jarl smiled coldly. “I will give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs.” _I_ will _find a way to work this to my advantage._

“Just try not to start any more conflicts than necessary,” the Dragonborn stated flatly, turning to leave. “I’ll see you at High Hrothgar before the day is done.” With that, she strode down the hallway and out of sight.

Ulfric chuckled tiredly to himself. _This is what I get for thinking about seeing her again: an invitation to a damned peace council that I would never have attended in a thousand years. At High Hrothgar, no less!_

 _Whatever foolish truce we come up with will only be temporary at best,_ he told himself. _Once the war started, nothing could stop it – and only with my defeat or that of the Imperials’ will it truly be over._

 _What the Dragonborn does not realize is that she has no hope whatsoever of ending this war at the conference table. She_ will _have to chose a side in the end, whether she likes it or not._


	11. Disatisfaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I love this quest. I was torn over whether I should overhaul the chapter for the repost or not, but I ultimately decided that I like it how it is (AKA, from Kajsa's POV).

Letting the double brass doors close behind her to shut out the howling wind that raged around the Throat of the World, Kajsa pulled off her ebony helmet, running her gauntleted fingers through her hair to ensure that it looked somewhat presentable. As an afterthought, she plucked off one of her gauntlets and rubbed her frozen ears in an attempt to warm them. She hadn’t put her helmet on until later in the afternoon, when the daylight had been blotted out by grey clouds and a fierce storm had started to pile snow onto the Seven Thousand Steps.

 _If only I could have made the Change,_ she lamented as she slipped the gauntlet back on her stiff fingers and tucked her helmet under one arm. _It would have made getting here so much easier. Unfortunately, showing up as a werewolf at a peace council would not have been the best tactic._

The Dragonborn laughed quietly to herself and began to walk down the short, brazier-lit hallway, but stopped when she reached the main hallway and saw the standoff there. A fuming Arngeir, arms akimbo and flanked by two of the other Greybeards, faced a haughty Delphine, decked out in her Blades armor, and a wary Esbern.

“You were not invited here,” Arngeir said firmly, almost angrily. “You are not welcome here.”

The blonde Breton lifted her chin in defiance. “We have as much right to be at this council as all of you – more, actually, since we were the ones that put the Dragonborn on this path.”

Kajsa sighed heavily _._ Sometimes, she didn’t know whether she wanted to admire Delphine’s courage and fortitude or to just strike her down for her condescending attitude towards everyone and everything.

“Were you? The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds,” the elder Greybeard condemned harshly.

“Delphine, we’re not here to rehearse old grudges,” Esbern, now dressed in rumpled black traveling clothes, rebuked her. In her resentful silence, he stepped forward to address the three robed Greybeards. “The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped. You wouldn’t have called this council if you didn’t agree. We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed.”

Arngeir’s face remained hard, but he nodded. “Very well. You may enter.”

Delphine swept past them without any further words. Esbern followed her, but not without an apologetic bow of the head. As the two other Greybeards vanished into another corridor, the Dragonborn took the opportunity to step out into the main hall and clear her throat to get Arngeir’s attention.

The elder Greybeard spotted her and sighed. “So, you’ve done it. The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace.” He shook his head regretfully and began ascending the set of stairs that the two Blades had gone up only a few moments earlier. “I should not have agreed to host this council. The Greybeards have no business involving ourselves in such matters.”

Kajsa, now caught up to him and walking by his side, was tempted to tell him that it was too late to reconsider; out of respect for her former mentor, she refrained from doing so. “This was the only way to get Baalgruf’s help, Master Arngeir.”

“Yes, yes,” Arngeir said with a touch of irritation as they turned right at the top of the stairs, and then right again at the end of the short, gloomy hallway. “Which is why I allowed this... _violation_ of all our traditions.”

The two of them stopped at a low, squared-off doorway leading into a chamber of grey stone, draped with ragged yellow banners trimmed with pale green. A round table with a hole in the center to allow for a softly crackling fire pit sat in the center, low-backed chairs arrayed around it. The Nord woman could make out the identities of a few of the figures standing around it: Legate Rikke and General Tullius were instantly recognizable in their armor, while Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun stood out in their richly embroidered robes. Ulfric paced at the far end of the table while Galmar stood solidly beside him, and Delphine and Esbern conversed quietly. The only one she couldn’t positively identify was a black-robed figure standing with the Imperial delegation.

“But regrets are pointless. Here we are. Let us see what wisdom we can find among these warriors of Skyrim.” Arngeir strode in past the Dragonborn and stood at the head of the table to address those assembled; when he spoke, all heads turned to him. “Please take your seats so we may begin. I _hope_ that we have all come here in the spirit of –”

Ulfric cut him off to growl at Tullius. “No. You insult us by bringing _her_ to this negotiation? Your chief Talos-hunter?” He pointed at the black-robed figure, which Kajsa, brushing past her on her way to her own seat at the furthest end, now recognized as Elenwen.

“That didn’t take long,” Legate Rikke muttered as she seated herself, along with the rest of the Imperial delegation.

“Hear, hear!” Galmar agreed, but he and the Jarl of Windhelm remained standing.

“I have every right to be at this negotiation,” the ambassador countered primly, crossing her arms. “I need to ensure that nothing agreed to here violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.”

“She’s part of the Imperial delegation,” Tullius defended. “You can’t dictate who I bring to this council.”

Arngeir, now seated as well, held up a hand. “Please! If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere.” He motioned to Kajsa, who had just reached her chair and was pulling it out from the council table. “Perhaps this would be a good time to get the Dragonborn’s input on this matter.”

Ulfric instantly strode over to Kajsa. Before she could sit down, he gripped her shoulder and steered her away from the table. “By Ysmir’s beard, the nerve of those Imperial bastards,” he spat, voice lowered. “To think that I would sit down at the same table with that... Thalmor _bitch._ ”His gaze met hers, and she saw her hate mirrored in his own eyes. “Either she walks or I do.”

 _Something we can agree upon._ The Dragonborn nodded once and then turned away from him. Settling herself in her chair, she smiled at the Altmer, but it was a cold, predatory smile. “Hello, Ambassador. Remember me?”

Elenwen paled, her composed façade broken. “ _You!_ You – you _thief_ –!”

“I’ll take that as a yes. In any case, you’re no longer welcome at this council. I trust you can show yourself out.” Kajsa hardened her voice, layering it with a threatening hint of her _thu’um_. “If you resist, I’ll have to demonstrate the power of my Voice – and I assure you, it’s a good deal more dangerous than Ulfric’s.”

“Very well, _Dragonborn_. Enjoy your petty victory.” The ambassador gracefully rose from her chair with a disdainful sniff. “The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your civil war.” She turned to leave, but paused to deliver a parting taunt at Ulfric. “The next time you order me around, do it yourself – don’t hide sniveling behind your half-bred _whore’s_ skirts and expect her to do your job.”

Kajsa’s jaw tightened in anger, but Elenwen had already departed. Ulfric finally sat, glancing over at her to gauge her reaction to the Altmer’s obvious slight; she ignored him. _I don’t need his concern._

“Ha!” Galmar snorted, seating himself as well. “Skyrim will never bow to the Thalmor! Unlike your Imperial friends here, Rikke.”

The legate shot out of her chair, her face furious; the Dragonborn instantly sensed bad blood between them. “You’re lucky I respect the Greybeards’ council, Galmar!”

“Legate,” General Tullius admonished sharply. “We represent the Emperor here. Sit down. _Now_. ”

“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” Legate Rikke, thoroughly chastised, obeyed her orders.

Arngeir sighed and rubbed his temples. “Now that _that’s_ settled, may we proceed?”

“Master Arngeir.” Ulfric’s voice echoed in the still, and Kajsa tensed at the edge to it. “I have something to say first, if I may.”

“Here we go,” Rikke muttered.

Without waiting for the approval of the Greybeard, the jarl continued. “The only reason I agreed to this council was to deal with the dragon menace. There is nothing else to talk about – unless the Empire is finally ready to renounce its unjust claim to rule over the free people of Skyrim.”

“I _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to resist,” the legate commented to no one in particular.

“We are here to arrange a temporary truce to allow the Dragonborn here to deal with the dragons and nothing more.” Ulfric fixed Tullius with a cold look. “In fact, I consider even _talking_ to the Empire a generous gesture.”

“Are you done?” the general asked disgustedly. “Did you just come here to make speeches? Or can we get down to business?”

Arngeir heaved another sigh. “Are we ready to proceed?” At the reluctant chorus of murmurs from around the table, he carried on. “Jarl Ulfric. General Tullius. This council is... unprecedented. We are gathered here at the Dragonborn’s request. I only ask that you all respect the spirit of High Hrothgar, and do your best to begin the process of achieving a lasting peace in Skyrim.” He glanced to either side. “Who would like to open the negotiations?”

The Jarl of Windhelm was the first to speak. “We want control of Markarth. That is our price for agreeing to a truce.” He crossed his arms over his chest, daring someone to say anything.

Kajsa threw him narrow-eyed glance. _Don’t think I don’t see your intentions, Jarl Ulfric. You couldn’t hold the Reach on your own all those years ago – so you’re here to get it under your control another way._

Elisif was the first to react. “So _that’s_ why you’re here, Ulfric? You dare to insult the Greybeards by using this council to advance your own position?” Her tiny white hands clenched into fists, and it was all the Dragonborn could do to keep herself from smirking at the thought of the petite, delicate jarl managing to hit the much larger, more powerful Ulfric.

“Jarl Elisif, _I’ll_ handle this,” Tullius cut in.

“General, this is outrageous!” Elisif argued. “You _can’t_ be taking this demand seriously! I thought we were here to discuss a truce!”

“Elisif!” the general nearly shouted before leveling his voice to a firmer tone. “I _said_ I’d handle it.” He glared across the table. “Ulfric, you can’t seriously expect us to give up Markarth at the negotiating table. You hope to gain in council what you’ve been unable to take in battle – is that it?”

“I’m sure Jarl Ulfric does not expect something for nothing,” Arngeir said in attempt to placate the general.

“Yes... that’d be entirely out of character,” Rikke stated sarcastically.

“What would the Empire want in return?” the Greybeard queried, ignoring the legate’s snide remark.

“Wait,” Elisif interrupted, her pretty face paling. “General, you don’t intend to just – hand over Markarth to that – that _traitor!_ ”

“ _This_ is how the Empire repays us for our loyalty?” Balgruuf growled.

“Enough!” Tullius shouted again, banging his fist down on the table. “First, let’s be clear. This council wasn’t _my_ idea. I think it’s a waste of time. _You_ –” his anger was directed towards Ulfric now “– are a traitor to the Empire and deserve a traitor’s death. But _I_ at least will negotiate in good faith.”

Galmar attempted to choke back a scornful laugh, but it came out as a hacking cough. Rikke glared at him.

Now the general turned his attention to Kajsa. “Since we’re all here at _your_ request, I’d like to hear what you think Markarth is worth.”

Leaning back in her chair, the Dragonborn pondered the question. _The only other major hold that Ulfric holds is Riften. It may not have the silver mines that Markarth has, but there’s plenty of wood, water routes... and thieves._ She smiled to herself. _Oh, Brynjolf and the others are going to_ love _their new assignment..._

“Well?” Tullius barked.

The Nord woman propped her elbows up on the table, lacing her hands underneath her chin. “How about Riften?”

Ulfric stared at her, aghast and incensed. Galmar looked as if he was going to reach for his battleaxe and slice her in two at any moment.

All Kajsa did was give them a cool glare. _Mind yourself, Jarl Ulfric. Unlike you, I’m actually trying to end this peacefully._

“Hmm...” The general seemed a bit more pleased at the prospect than the Stormcloak delegation. “The Rift would help us secure our communications with Cyrodiil... and threaten Ulfric’s southern flank...” He smiled smugly across the table. “You heard the woman, Ulfric. We’ve made you a fair offer. Are you serious about these talks – or are you just here to posture?”

“All of the posturing is done by you, Tullius.” Ulfric now focused on his rival, a cool anger in his voice. “The Dragonborn has spoken. Even at this heavy price that she suggests, Markarth will be ours. Now we will see if there is anything behind your talk of ‘good faith.’”

Kajsa raised an eyebrow, surprised. _Good sense. Finally._

The general’s nostrils flared as he scowled at Kajsa. “You disappoint me, Dragonborn. I accepted your invitation on trust in your good name. But it seems you intend to favor Ulfric.” He rose from the table, the loathing evident in his eyes. “I can see now that this is not a negotiation at all. I know you, Ulfric. If I hand over Markarth, you’ll be ready with a new demand.

“You’ll never defeat the Empire, and you know it. But you’re willing to sacrifice thousands for your own selfish ambition. Soon enough, I’ll have you back under the headsman’s axe, and this time, there won’t be any dragon to save you!”

The jarl’s fist slammed down on the table. “As always, the Empire’s fine words are worth nothing!”

“Stop!” Esbern cried out, struggling to his feet. “Are you so blind to our danger that you can’t see past your petty disagreements? Here you sit, arguing about... nothing! While the fate of the land hangs in the balance!”

Ulfric glanced over to his right, where the two Blades sat. “Is he with you, Delphine? If so, I advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.”

“He _is_ with me,” the blonde Breton responded coolly. “And I advise that both you and Tullius listen to what he has to say before you do anything rash.”

The Dragonborn smiled to herself. _This is one of the times I can safely say that I appreciate having Delphine on my side._

“Don’t you understand the danger?” Esbern pleaded, clutching the edge of the table. “Don’t you understand what the return of the dragons means? Alduin has returned! The World-Eater! Even now, he devours the souls of your fallen comrades!”

Tullius looked suspicious, but Rikke gasped. Galmar swore.

“He grows more powerful with every soldier slain in your pointless war!” The old Blade outstretched his gnarled hands in a pleading gesture. “Can you not put aside your hatred for even _one moment_ in the face of this mortal danger?”

A shocked silence reigned in the conference room. In the lull, Delphine quietly got up and helped Esbern, shaking with rage, back to his seat.    

The Legion general was the first to speak. “I don’t know about the end of the world, but this dragon situation has gotten out of hand.” He smiled tightly, patronizingly across the table. “If this truce will help the Dragonborn here put an end to that menace, we both gain. Remember that, Ulfric.

“Now, back to the matter at hand. You know as well as I do that we can’t _possibly_ hand over Markarth on these terms.” He paused for dramatic effect and then continued with aplomb. “We want compensation for the massacre at Karthwasten.”

“You slaughtered the very people you claim to be fighting for!” Rikke put in, revulsion in her gaze. “ _True_ sons of Skyrim would never do such things!”

“Damned Imperial lies!” Galmar snarled. “My men would never stoop to such methods, even in retaliation for your butchery at –”

“This is our homeland, Tullius,” Ulfric said threateningly. “All the blood spilled in this war is on _your_ head.”

Throwing up his hands, the general addressed Kajsa again. “What do _you_ say, Dragonborn?”

The Nord woman shrugged. _Dear gods and Daedra, am I seriously negotiating this whole ceasefire?_ “Who’s to say _what_ happened at Karthwasten? However, if you feel you need something _more_ than the whole of the Rift, then Ulfric should compensate you for Karthwasten.”

Tullius ignored her obvious jibe in favor of jeering at his rival. “For once, you’ll actually pay for your crimes.” His mood soured again and he scowled at the tabletop. “I suppose that’s the fairest deal we’re likely to get, anyhow.”

“It seems we may have an agreement.” Arngeir serenely rose from his seat, a sheet of parchment in his ink-stained hands. “Jarl Ulfric, General Tullius: these are the terms currently on the table.” He began to read from the draft of the treaty.

“Markarth will be handed over to Ulfric’s forces. Jarl Igmund will step down and Thongvor Silver-Blood will become the Jarl of Markarth. Ulfric will allow Imperial forces into the Rift. Jarl Laila Law-Giver will step down and Maven Black-Briar will become the Jarl of Riften.”

The Dragonborn hid her satisfaction well. _This is working out better than I thought it would. Maven had better appreciate what I’ve done for her today._

“In addition, the Stormcloaks will also pay appropriate compensation for the massacre at Karthwasten.” Arngeir glanced towards either side. “You both agree to this?”

“The sons of Skyrim will live up to their agreements,” Ulfric assured steadfastly. “As long as the Imperials hold to theirs.” He lolled in his chair and smirked at Elisif. “What about you, Elisif? Are these terms to your liking? Speak up – I am sure General Tullius is waiting to do your bidding.”

Now it was Kajsa’s turn to glare at him. _That was far out of line, Jarl Ulfric – even for you._  

The Jarl of Solitude bit her lip, her lovely eyes sparkling with barely restrained tears of frustration. “I have nothing to say to you, _murderer_.” Regaining control of her emotions, she turned to Tullius. “General, you’ve proven yourself a good friend to Skyrim. I continue to trust that you will do your utmost to safeguard our interests.”

It could have been the Nord woman’s imagination, but it seemed to her that the general’s eyes softened slightly. “Thank you, Jarl Elisif. I appreciate your loyalty.” He addressed Arngeir now, businesslike once more. “The Dragonborn favors the rebels, and thusly, I feel the terms do as well. But the Empire will accept them until the dragon menace is dealt with.” Leaning over the table, he fixed Ulfric with an ominous glower. “After that, Ulfric, there will be a reckoning. Count on it.”

The elder Greybeard nodded. “Then we are in accord.” Setting the parchment down, he signed his name underneath the terms, and then he pushed it to his left along with the ink and quill.

Esbern signed with shaking hands, and Delphine did so after casting a critical eye over it. Ulfric and Galmar both glared at the Imperial delegation, but signed with decisive motions. Kajsa simply scrawled her name under Arngeir’s, signifying her as a negotiator and a witness.

Rikke scratched her signature out with angular penmanship, while Elisif signed in elegant, flowery cursive. Tullius shook his head in disbelief, and then quickly scribbled his own name and pushed it along. Balgruuf merely signed silently.

Arngeir collected the treaty with a grimly satisfied look. “The terms of this treaty have been settled, gentlemen. I trust that you will have the decency to honor them until the Dragonborn completes her task.”

His chair scraping back against the stone floor, Ulfric stood without regarding the Greybeard’s words. “Come, Galmar. We have much work to do.” He strode past Kajsa as if the Nord woman wasn’t even there, leaving her to stare after him with anger burning inside of her.


	12. When Sovngarde Beckons...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Shake It Out," Florence + The Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs)

“As terrible as that went, it could have gone a hell of a lot worse,” Galmar grunted over his mug of mead in a poor attempt at optimism. “Both of us are still alive, so I suppose that counts for something.”

“You do not know Arngeir like I do.” Leaving his own drink on the table beside him untouched, Ulfric propped up his elbows on his knees and rested his weight on them. “He takes the preservation of the sanctity of High Hrothgar very seriously. It was all I could do to convince him to let us through the doors without the confiscation of our weapons. Even Tullius could not be fool enough to make an attempt on our lives in the presence of the Greybeards.”

The two Stormcloaks sat around the crackling fire pit of the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead; the small unit of soldiers they’d brought along to ensure protection were either drinking out on the front porch or playing dice at a corner bench. Even though night had already fallen, the Imperial delegation had bypassed the comforts of the inn, saddled their horses, and rode out of town on the western road. Having a feeling that their abrupt departure was because of the strong Stormcloak presence in the inn, the jarl couldn’t help but take a certain amount of satisfaction in that.

His housecarl leaned back in his chair, wiping the remnants of his drink away from his mouth and beard. “This’ll be the last time we drink here for a bit. Thanks to the Dragonborn, Ivarstead and the rest of the Rift will be crawling with Imperials before the week is out.”

Ulfric nodded with ambivalent acknowledgment. “Once we get back to Windhelm, I will have Jorleif send notices to our troops in the Rift to have them relocate to the Reach. The treaty provides us with one week’s safe passage through Falkreath Hold; we will have to move quickly before time runs out.”

“And we have to send reparations to Solitude as well,” Galmar’s pointed out, scowling. “Ten thousand septims! Shor’s stones, what an outrageous sum!”

“Yes, yes,” the jarl agreed with a sigh. “Unfortunately, that and the Rift were the price that we had to pay for Markarth and the Reach.”

“Do you think this joke of a treaty was worth it?”

“Only time will tell, old friend. Thanks to the Forsworn, the Reach is perhaps the most dangerous hold in Skyrim, but it has plenty of silver mines and free labor to work them. And if you can believe the reports, Markarth is the only hold capital that has never been attacked by a dragon.” Ulfric smiled. “Besides, it gives us an unobstructed route into Whiterun Hold.”

“That’ll be worth shit until the ceasefire ends,” his housecarl growled. “Gods know how long _that’ll_ take.”

A gust of cold night air from the opening door made the candlelight flicker briefly before settling again. Lifting up his eyes slightly, the jarl saw Kajsa slip into the Vilemyr Inn and shut the door behind her. She glanced over at him briefly before striding past them on her way to the counter without a greeting.

Galmar chuckled and drained his tankard. “I can live with her not speaking to us. I think she realizes that her little treaty didn’t miraculously end the war like she hoped.” He stood up, stretching with a monstrous yawn, and clapped Ulfric on the shoulder. “I’m going to go try my luck at the dice.”

“Go ahead.” Ulfric sprawled back in his chair and took a first drink of his mead as he watched his housecarl head off towards the gambling Stormcloaks in the corner. Nearby, the barmaid tuned a brightly painted lute and prepared to play a song.

“Got any Black-Briar mead, Wilhelm?” Ulfric heard the Dragonborn ask from behind him, her low voice murmuring through the opening notes of the ballad.

“Just this last bottle. Twenty-five septims.”

“Done.” A clink of coin against wood. “Have yourself a good night.”

“You too, miss.”

Her footsteps grew louder as the Nord woman brushed past him, a brown bottle of mead dangling from one hand. Now out of her ebony armor, she was clad in a loose shirt and a pair of belted breeches with worn leather boots. Surprisingly, the masculine clothing flattered her – _but not as much as that dress,_ he thought to himself.

The jarl pitched his voice so it would reach her. “Leaving so soon?”

Kajsa stopped, turning her head to see who had spoken. Her dark eyes hardened when she saw him sitting by the fire. “I see you’ve decided to talk to me once more, Jarl Ulfric.”

“I could say the same for you, Red-Blade,” he countered, gesturing at the bottle she held. “Do you plan to drink alone?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” she snapped.

“Perhaps it does not. But the fact of the matter is that mead tastes better when you drink with another.” Ulfric tapped the armrest of the chair next to him. “Join me.”

The Dragonborn paused for a few moments before shrugging and settling herself in the offered seat. “So what shall we drink to this time?” she asked acidly, uncorking her bottle. “To our youth? To days come and gone? To a temporary peace treaty that’s doomed to fail anyway?”

Ulfric raised his eyebrows at her last comment. “Quite a pessimistic thing to say about something you had high hopes for.”

“My hopes died as soon as I got to the negotiating table.” With bitterness now replacing her sarcasm, Kajsa took a swig of her mead without waiting for the toast.

“You secured the Reach for me, Dragonborn. Does that not count for anything?”

A haunted, dark look filled the young woman’s eyes, and she let out a harsh laugh. “My mother would be rolling over in her grave right now – if she had one, at least. Yes... I returned Markarth and the Reach to the man whose invasion was the very reason my parents fled the city over twenty years ago.” She took another gulp of her drink, slamming the bottle down on the armrest. “The irony is not lost on me.”

“Are you drunk?” the jarl asked sharply.

“No, but I wish I was.” The Dragonborn finished off her mead in one long drag, wiping the remnants away from her mouth. “Unfortunately, I’m cursed with a high tolerance to alcohol and drinking companions who are overly concerned for my health.” She slouched in her chair, stretching out her legs and crossing one over the other, placing the bottle on the floor.

Leaning over his knees again, Ulfric steepled his fingers contemplatively. “Let me pose a question to you, then: if you knew the peace treaty would never succeed in the long run, why did you not take a side and end the war through force?” _The only way this war could ever hope to be ended..._

Kajsa scowled. “Yes, I knew the ceasefire was a terrible idea,” she admitted. “But if it succeeded, I could at least maintain _some_ neutrality and not completely disgrace the mantle of Harbinger.”

“Congratulations, by the way,” the jarl offered, smiling slightly. “I must admit, it seems –”

“– misguided? Like a bad joke? Believe me, I was definitely _not_ expecting to be named as Kodlak’s successor. Neither were the other Companions.” She shrugged tiredly. “But I had support from the majority and it was Kodlak’s wish, so the opposition couldn’t really argue... successfully, at least.”

There was silence between them for a moment. In the lull, the fire crackled and the barmaid continued to strum her lute, and the rattling of dice could be heard from the corner table.

Then: “You did not answer my first question, Red-Blade. Why were you intent on drinking alone?”

The Nord woman chewed her lip. “I don’t want to be missed,” she said simply.

Ulfric scrutinized her face. It was impassive, but not in the manner he’d come to expect from her. Rather than showing fire and strength and power, her lack of emotion let the fear in her eyes stand out.

“You do not think you can defeat Alduin,” he said flatly, but without any condemnation.

The Dragonborn remained still for a moment. Then, turning to him, she grasped the loose collar of her shirt and tugged it aside to reveal her right shoulder. “Do you see these?”

Jagged, vicious teeth marks – some raw and red, others just beginning to scab over, but all recent – scarred her skin. If her shoulder had been uncovered, there would have been no chance that anyone could have missed them.

Breath catching in his throat, the jarl reached out and brushed one of them with his fingers; it was a smaller wound, but perilously close to her neck and the artery that pulsed there. _Talos... how is this woman not dead?_

“I battled Alduin on the Throat of the World,” Kajsa said quietly. “Even for all my skill with the sword and the Voice, he nearly killed me. The only reason I’m still alive is because he was merely toying with me; even though I’m the Dragonborn, I’m still only a weak little _joor_ in his eyes. The World-Eater could have torn my arm off if he had wanted to.” Pushing his hand away, she tugged the fabric over her shoulder again. “If I face him in Sovngarde, where he has the souls of the dead to augment his power...” Her voice trailed off as her worry showed through her semblance of indifference.

Ulfric stared at her, astounded at the resigned words that he was hearing. “You are the Dragonborn, the last one if prophecy is to be believed. Is it not your destiny to defeat Alduin?”

“I don’t believe in destiny,” the Nord woman snapped. “And the Prophecy of the Dragonborn, Alduin’s Wall, the Elder Scrolls – they only say that I will _face_ Alduin, not that I’ll defeat him!”

“And what if destiny has decided to believe in _you_?”

The Dragonborn swallowed, falling silent.

Placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder, the jarl looked her in the eyes. “If someone had told me a year ago that the girl sitting next to me on the cart bound for Helgen – a sellsword, a thief, and an assassin with ties to the Daedra – would become the Harbinger of the Companions and be revealed to be the Dragonborn of legend, I would probably have laughed in their face and told them they were mistaken.

“But this is what you were born to do, Red-Blade. When you face Alduin in Sovngarde – win or lose – everyone will remember the day as a battle of the ages.”

Kajsa smirked slightly. “Spoken like a true Nord. In the face of death or maiming, think about the toasts drunk and the songs sung in your name.”

Ulfric laughed quietly before sobering once more. “Even if you do not, _I_ have faith in you, Dragonborn. You _will_ find a way to reach Sovngarde, you _will_ destroy Alduin once and for all, and once it is all over, you _will_ return to Tamriel.” He stood up, feeling his cramped legs protest after all of his time spent sitting down that day, and then extended a hand to help the young woman up. “Afterwards, perhaps you could stop by the Palace of the Kings and tell me what Sovngarde is like over a drink or two.”

“Perhaps I will.” She began to saunter towards the inn door, and then stopped, looking back over her shoulder at him. “Not going to walk me out? And I thought that you were a gentleman.”

Without missing a beat, the jarl graciously offered her his arm. “If you wanted to be treated like the lady you are, you should have mentioned it earlier.”

The Dragonborn snorted, but she linked her arm through his and the two of them continued on. When they reached the simple wooden door, Ulfric opened it for her and motioned for her to go first. After she stepped out, he followed her, closing the door behind them both and shutting out the sounds of the inn.

Outside, in the serenity of the night, Ivarstead slept. What was left of Masser and Secunda shone overhead, providing a soft, indistinct glow over the squat, snug houses. The wind had died down, but the air still felt crisp and cool.

Slipping her arm out from the crook of his own and ambling down the low steps, Kajsa stopped down by the railing to untie a monstrous black stallion, laden with her knapsack, her weapons, and the ebony armor she’d been wearing earlier.

The jarl leaned on the porch rail. “Is this your horse?”

“Yes. His name’s Shadowmere.” Running her fingers through the horse’s mane with affection, the Dragonborn offered him an apple; Ulfric was almost certain she’d stolen it from one of the barrels outside the inn door. “A faithful friend to me.”

At the mention of his name, the stallion whickered before taking a bite out of the proffered apple. The jarl wasn’t sure if he was seeing this correctly in the dim light, but it seemed to him that Shadowmere’s eyes glowed a bright red.

Freeing the reins from the railing, the Nord woman led her horse away from the inn and onto the cobblestone road running through Ivarstead. Rummaging in her knapsack, she tugged out a hooded black robe, lined with fur, and shrugged it over her shoulders, pulling up the hood.

Ulfric descended the steps and walked to her side. As Kajsa planted one foot in the stirrup, she gripped his shoulder for added support as she swung herself up into the leather saddle with practiced ease.

“My thanks.” From Shadowmere’s back, the Dragonborn glanced down at him, the shadow of her hood hiding most of her face, save her mouth and the scars running past it. “I suppose that this is where we say good-bye.” Her voice was resigned, but not sentimental.

“Only for a while,” the jarl responded. “Until you defeat Alduin and return in triumph to tell me of Sovngarde.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “You make it sound so easy.”

Ulfric returned the gesture. “Talos guide you, Dragonborn.” Lifting her hand from his shoulder, he brushed a soft kiss on the knuckles. “I will be waiting.”

Kajsa tensed slightly at the contact, but nodded, slipping her hand from his. “Good-bye, Jarl Ulfric.” Tapping the flanks of her mount with her heels, she urged the stallion into a canter, then onwards into a gallop. Soon she and Shadowmere had vanished into the shadows blanketing the western road.

The jarl watched her leave in quiet acknowledgment, regretting some of the things he didn’t ask her. _The peace treaty. If she favors one side over the other in the war now._ He recalled seeing the braided cord of the necklace he’d given her around her neck along with her Amulet of Talos; at least she had truly accepted his gift graciously.

Bowing his head and folding his hands, he said a quiet prayer for the Dragonborn. _Talos guide you and keep you. May the might of His sword and the strength of His_ thu’um _be yours. Give the craven World-Eater fear with your power._

 _Return to me whole,_ he prayed: no longer wholly for her, but for himself. _I beg you, return to me. Do not let Sovngarde lay claim on you yet. Tamriel still has need of one such as you._

A chill breeze whipped up and Ulfric tugged his robes around him a little more tightly. With a last look down the western road, he trudged towards the lights of the Vilemyr Inn.


	13. Taking Sides

“Taking back the Reach went smoother than I expected it,” Galmar commented. “At least that turncloak Igmund had the sensibility to step down without a fight, though I would have loved the chance to bloody his nose.”

Ulfric smiled slightly, replacing the double red flags on the map icon of Markarth with those of a blue color. “I had a little chat with Thongvor Silver-Blood, the new jarl. He is fervently dedicated to our cause, and he is certainly more competent than Skald.”

“There’s a relief.” His housecarl moved the displaced red flags over to Riften. “Unfortunately, the Black-Briar bitch’s control over the Rift is now undisputed. Not only can she afford to either buy all of the opposition off or have them mysteriously ‘disappear,’ she’s got the title of jarl, too.”

“It is something we will remedy when we take back the Rift, old friend. Remember that the ceasefire has ended now...”

_The peace treaty had expired only two days after it was signed. Early in the morning, just after Ulfric, Galmar, and their unit of Stormcloaks had returned to Windhelm, the whole of the city was woken by thunderous, conquering roars ringing from the Throat of the World. As countless people rushed into the snowy streets, many still in their nightclothes and all craning their heads to try and see the source of the noise, the jarl and his housecarl had joined them_

“Alduin mahlaan!”

“Sahrot thur quahnaraan!”

_Galmar frowned. “What is that ungodly sound?”_

_“The dragon tongue.” Surprised at his recognition of the language, Ulfric rubbed his temples, trying to think back to his boyhood lessons from Arngeir. “They are saying that – that Alduin has fallen. Vanquished by a mighty overlord.” His breath caught in his throat._ Kajsa... did you succeed?

_His unspoken question was soon answered. The Voices of other dragons joined into the cacophony to create an exultant chorus._

“Dovahkiin los ok dovahkriid!”

“Thu’umii los nahlot!”

“Mu los vomir!”

 _Then, another voice – hoarse and low, but full of wild pride – joined in their roars, echoing from the mountains: “_ Zu’u Dovahkiin!”

 _The jarl laughed quietly, part in wonder and part in a shared sense of triumph._ She did it. She really did it... even where she did not think she could.

_“Well, I’ll be damned!” Galmar exploded, chuckling along with him. “Slaying the World-Eater... that’ll be quite the story to tell, eh?”_

_“Aye...” Ulfric stared up into the grey sky, feeling snowflakes fall on his face. “Do you know what this means, Galmar? For all of us?”_

_“That peace treaty might as well be ripped up and burned.” His housecarl grinned. “The battle for Skyrim isn’t over yet.”_

The patter of hasty footsteps in the corridor heralded Jorleif’s arrival, hands nervously wringing in front of him. “Jarl Ulfric!”

His master’s head snapped up immediately. “Is the Dragonborn here?” _No one else but her shows up this late in the evening._

“Ah, no, Jarl Ulfric.” The steward shifted his feet uneasily. “But there _is_ someone here asking to see you: a member of the Thieves Guild, unless I’m mistaken.”

 _That_ got the jarl’s attention. “Send him in immediately.”

Jorleif bobbed his head in deference and vanished down the hallway.

Galmar scowled. “What does the Guild want with you?”

Ulfric shrugged noncommittally, straightening up and folded his hands behind his back. Then, a thought hit him. _Kajsa has strong ties to the Thieves Guild. Does he bear some kind of a message from her?_

The sound of sure strides echoed down the narrow passageway. A broad-shouldered red-haired Nord man emerged into the war room. He wore the distinctive leathers of the Thieves Guild, black instead of the brown seen on Kajsa, with twin daggers hanging from his belt. His emerald-green eyes, slyly glinting, took in the room as if he were sizing it up for a potential break-in – _and knowing his line of work,_ thought the jarl dryly, _it is a definite possibility._

“Jarl Ulfric.” The thief had a low, lilting brogue. “It’s a pleasure to meet such an influential figure such as yourself.”

“Enough with your flattery, thief.” Galmar growled. “Spit out why you came here before I kick your sorry arse out of the palace.”

The other laughed. “I can see what our lovely Guildmaster meant about you.” He tilted his head politely. “I am Brynjolf, second-in-command to the Guildmaster of the Riften Thieves Guild. Charmed.”

Ulfric nodded curtly. “Why have you come, Brynjolf?”

From a pouch on his armor, Brynjolf drew out two sealed documents: one with red wax and the other with purple. He handed them both across the table.

Setting the latter down on the map of Skyrim, the jarl broke the seal of the former and scanned it briefly, then looked up incredulously. “This catalogs potential Imperial troop movements in and out of Fort Greenwall. How did you get these?”

The thief smiled. “The same way the Thieves Guild acquires all of its intel: we steal it. I’ll pass on your regards to Vex, however; she was the one the Guildmaster sent out on the job.”

Ulfric peered at him, suspicion taking hold. “Your Guildmaster would not happen to be Kajsa Red-Blade, would it?”

“Right as rain, my friend. She waltzed into the Ratway a few days ago and gave us some general instructions having to do with upsetting the Imperial presence in the Rift. And then she went to go chat with Maven and came back with this letter for you.” He gestured to the second of the sealed documents, still lying on the table.

Handing off the troop movements to Galmar, the jarl picked off the seal and read the elegant, upright handwriting on the parchment:

> _To Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm:_
> 
> _As you very well know, I have recently been given the title of Jarl of the Rift. Kajsa Red-Blade, the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild and the Dragonborn, has informed me that this was due to her influence in the negotiating of a short-lived ceasefire between the Empire and your Stormcloaks; therefore, I am in debt to her. Personally, I think this whole thing is ridiculous, but I have nothing but the greatest respect for Guildmaster Red-Blade and will follow her advice._
> 
> _I have a proposition for you. I’m sure you realize that if you take back the Rift, the former jarl, Laila Law-Giver, will expect her title back. However, it would be pointless to reinstate her; I have always had control over Riften, despite Law-Giver mistakenly believing that_ she _ran the city. The Guildmaster has recommended that I write to you with the suggestion that, on the occasion you regain the Rift, I remain Jarl and swear fealty to you instead, cutting off my ties to the Empire._
> 
> _Think it over carefully, Jarl Ulfric. I await your response._
> 
> _Maven Black-Briar, Jarl of Riften_

Ulfric raised his eyebrows at the barely concealed insulting tone of the letter. _It will be a cold day in Oblivion before that happens._ “Tell Jarl Black-Briar that I will consider her offer. She will know what that means.”

“Maven is by no means a patient or an accepting woman,” Brynjolf warned. “I trust you know what you will be dealing with.”

“The wishes of your patron do not concern me at the moment,” the jarl stated firmly, coldly. “Was that all you came for?”

“My work here is finished. However, our lovely Guildmaster sends her regards and says that she will be arriving in Windhelm shortly.”

“How soon?”

The thief opened his mouth to respond, but from the throne room, there was the distinctive bang of one of the brass doors falling shut.

Heart racing in anticipation, Ulfric brushed past Brynjolf and hurried down the corridor, bursting out into the main hall. Whipping his head around to catch a glimpse of the doorway, he saw who his latest visitor was.

It was none other than Kajsa herself: dressed in the same black Thieves Guild leathers as her second-in-command, her short umber hair tousled from the outside wind and the ghost of a satisfied smile on her face.

Relieved and elated, the jarl let out a booming laugh. _It is her. She is here. She is alive. Kajsa is alive._ Before he could stop himself, he strode the length of the throne room and wrapped his arms around the young woman’s waist, pulling her into a fierce hug. She tensed, and he made to release her, but then she surprised him by sliding her arms around his shoulders and tucking her head under his chin.

They stood there for what seemed too short a time – entwined in the other’s arms, saying nothing – but it seemed to Ulfric that they were silently saying all that needed to be said. Her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, her warm breath against his chest, the steady beat of her heart pulsing against his ribcage: these small actions expressed much more than words could ever tell.

“It’s done,” she finally said, so quietly that he almost couldn’t hear her. “Alduin is dead, and destiny has released me at last.”

“And you have returned.” _Like you always have in the past._ Removing a hand from her waist, the jarl threaded his fingers through her tousled locks, smoothing them out slightly. “I have missed you.”

Ducking her head out from under his chin, the Dragonborn lifted her dark eyes to meet his, the smile on her face now slightly uncertain.

From behind them, there came a low chuckle. Still in each other’s arms, the two of them whirled around to see a grinning Brynjolf leaning against the high stone wall of the vast throne room.

Kajsa reacted first, placing a palm against Ulfric’s chest and pushing him away from her. “I see you had no trouble making it here in a timely fashion, Bryn,” she said tartly, sounding more like her old self again.

“The messages you charged me with were important, lass. I had to move quickly.” He slipped past them and tugged open one of the brass doors to the courtyard. “I suppose this means I owe Delvin a round of drinks.”

“There’s still plenty of work to be done around the Cistern,” the other thief chided. “I’m sure your bet with Del can wait for a few days.”

“Aye, aye, Guildmaster.” After tossing her an informal salute, Brynjolf exited the Palace of the Kings, letting the heavy door fall behind him.

Shaking her head at the theatrics of her second-in-command, the Dragonborn turned her attention back to Ulfric, returning fully to her usual manner. “I trust you received the documents intact?”

“Yes, and thank you for the intel. Galmar will find a use for it, I am sure.” He began to stroll back towards the war room. “Is there a particular reason that you have tasked the Thieves Guild to create chaos in the Imperial forces stationed in the Rift?”

Kajsa smirked slightly. “I have no obligations to fate anymore. I can make my own path now... write a new story upon the sands of time...” She paused deliberately. “Choose a side...”

Astonished, the jarl stopped in his tracks, glancing over at her. “You wish to join up with the Stormcloaks.”

The only answer she gave was a nod.

In higher spirits than ever before, Ulfric laughed again. “Today is truly a day for rejoicing, then. I would be more than happy to accept you into the ranks of the army, provided you fight for me with honor and integrity.” He gestured towards the corridor leading to the war room. “Speak to Galmar about enlisting. If he gives you any trouble, just tell him that I sent you.”

“I will.” Eyes gleaming in anticipation, the thief walked towards the doorway.

“Oh, and Kajsa?” Her given name felt unfamiliar in his mouth – _perhaps because I have never used it before today,_ he reflected – but his tongue took to its shape and sound easily enough.

At his voice, she paused and looked back at him, waiting for him to continue.

“If you are in need of lodging, I will have Jorleif prepare a room for you in the Palace of the Kings. You are always welcome here.”

Kajsa raised an eyebrow. “Your generosity is unprecedented, Jarl Ulfric,” she said dryly.

He waved away the title. “Please: call me Ulfric. Between us two, we have enough honorifics to fill a history book.”

Her lips pursed slightly. “All right, then... Ulfric.”

The jarl’s gaze lingered on her as she vanished down the hallway, and he couldn’t help but smile at his good fortune. _The Dragonborn is finally on our side. This war might turn in our favor yet._

* * *

“So, you’ve finally slunk back to Windhelm,” Galmar gloated. “And this time, you’re even prepared to fight.”

“Cut the bullshit, Stone-Fist,” Kajsa snapped. “You know I’m qualified, and we both know that you and Ulfric need me desperately if you want to win. Just let me in.”

The general glared at her distrustfully. “Why the sudden change of heart, Dragonborn? Why so eager to fight for Skyrim now?”

“This land is my only home now. I was born and raised here, and I’m probably going to die here, too. But while I still live, I’m going to see that Skyrim becomes a country freed from the yoke of the Empire and the Dominion.”

“A pretty speech, but are you willing to die for your home?”

The Dragonborn drew herself up to her full height. “What do _you_ think?” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I may only be half a Nord, but that blood runs through my veins all the same. What kind of Dragonborn would I be if I saved the world from Alduin, but didn’t even lift a finger to help my own kinsmen?”

“Fair enough,” Galmar conceded grudgingly. “I’ll see if you follow through on your word soon enough. I have a little test for you.”  

“I can handle anything you throw at me.” _Who does he think I am, anyway? Some green farmer’s daughter who’s never touched a blade in her life?_

“That’s what I like to hear – so long as you can back up your boast with steel.” He continued on before she could cut in with a withering retort. “I’m sending you to Serpentstone Island, north of Winterhold. If you survive, you pass. If you die... well, you weren’t going to be much use to me, anyway.”

Kajsa crossed her arms. “What’s on Serpentstone Island?”

“It’s where the brave have tested their mettle for ages. There’s a strange rock formation, built by the ancients. Something about that place attracts the ice wraiths. If you kill one out there and bring back its teeth, I’ll have all the proof I need about you.”

The Dragonborn laughed scornfully. _Please. I’ve killed ice wraiths in my sleep._ “Does every recruit have to do this?”

“Only the ones I’m not sure about. Not only will this further prove your abilities, it will prove your commitment. Ulfric seems to believe in you, but I have my doubts.”

“Of course,” she responded dryly.

The Stormcloak general shrugged. “You may be the Dragonborn, but I also know you as a thief, assassin, and Daedra-worshipper. Any reasonable person would share my skepticism.”

Opening her mouth to argue, she shut it again after realizing that it wouldn’t do much good. _He’s got a bone to pick with me; he’ll send me out to do his damn test anyway._ “Fine. I’ll set out to kill the ice wraith tomorrow.”

“Good.” Grabbing a small blue bottle off the table, Galmar tossed it to her. “Take this. You’ll need it. Use it on the island, and for the love of Talos, don’t lose it – it’s all the help you’ll get from me.”

There was a tap on her shoulder, and Kajsa stopped examining the label of the potion to turn around. Jorleif was waiting behind her with a long-suffering look on his face.

“Dragonborn.” The steward inclined his head in respect and gestured towards the door leading to the second floor of the Palace of the Kings. “Jarl Ulfric bade me to show you to your room.”

“That would be appreciated,” she said with all of the patience she had left.

Scurrying to the door, Jorleif opened it for her and ushered her through.

“Oh, and Red-Blade?” the general called gruffly after her before the door closed and shut out his voice. “Try not to die. That would be unfortunate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the rest of the dialogue in the Dragon Tongue (courtesy of UESP):
> 
>  _Dovahkiin los ok dovahkriid!_ = The Dragonborn is his dragonslayer!  
>  _Thu'umii los nahlot!_ = His Shouts are silenced!  
>  _Mu los vomir!_ = We are free!  
>  _Zu'u Dovahkiin!_ = I am Dragonborn!


	14. Days Come and Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"How shall the heart be reconciled_   
>  _to its feast of losses?_   
>  _In a rising wind_   
>  _the manic dust of my friends,_   
>  _those who fell along the way,_   
>  _bitterly stings my face."_   
> 
> 
> \- "The Layers," Stanley Kunitz

_“Why do you worship Talos, Da?”_

_The man with the graying, unkempt stubble and the bulky, muscled shoulders tugged at a leather cord around his neck, digging out an amulet that had been resting under his patched shirt. “Do you see this?”_

_Eyes squinting, the lanky girl with the sharply-angled face examined the charm. It was an old wooden Amulet of Talos, the carvings in the stylized hammer etched deeper by age. “Yes.”_

_“This amulet was given to me by my father when I left home. He got it from his father – your great-grandfather, who made it for himself as a young man.” He tucked it back under his shirt, out of sight. “My family has always honored Talos, like any true Nord would. This amulet has always been passed down the male line of my family, but someday, I’ll give it to you.”_

_“That doesn’t answer my question,” the girl persisted. “Why do you worship Talos? Why not one of the other Nine Divines or Nocturnal, like Mum?”_

_“Your mum and her damned Daedra.” The older man shook his head. “I can’t tell you why she worshiped them, but it was probably for the same reason that I worship Talos.”_

_“What’s that, then?” She leaned over her knees, glancing sidelong at him, ignoring the slight against her mother._

_“Because we need help with our lives sometimes: finding love, being lucky or happy, needing strength. Your Mum prayed to Nocturnal to aid her in her –” he swallowed, but continued on “–_ work _, to aid her in bringing in enough coin for us to live on. I pray to Talos because I needed and still need the courage and fortitude to support my family, through the good and the bad._

_“Talos is the greatest of the Nine Divines. He was born a man, became a conqueror, and ascended to godhood upon death. He was Dragonborn, but most importantly, he is the ideal for all Nords to strive for.”_

_“Should_ I _worship Talos, Da?”_

_Her father laughed. “I can’t tell you who or what to worship. In fact, no one should, even though some think they have the right to.” His aging, rugged face sobered._

_“Do you mean the Aldmeri Dominion?” The girl thought back to warm winter nights by a fire in a real hearth, in a snug little house – when her mum was still alive, just not there – listening to her father spin ancient legends and tell stories about their family history and his service during Great War._

_“Aye. That’s why I hide my Amulet of Talos whenever I go into town; even though it’s Windhelm, you can never be too careful. Those damn elves have spies everywhere, and they don’t hesitate to arrest anyone who they deem an enemy.”_

_His daughter nodded quietly, and then asked hesitantly, “What about – what about Jarl Stormcloak?”_

_The man’s eyes, suspicious and wary, snapped over to her at the mention of the name. “What about the jarl?”_

_“Doesn’t he refuse to support the –” she scrambled for the unfamiliar name “– the White-Gold Concordat? He wants the worship of Talos to be legal again.”_

_Letting out a heavy sigh, the man turned to face her, putting both work-calloused hands on her bony shoulders. “Well... I’m of two minds about Ulfric Stormcloak.”_

_The girl’s brow furrowed at the foreign expression. “What does that mean?”_

_“It means that I like some things about him, but not others. On one hand, he’s making it his mission to blacken the Thalmor’s eye by openly worshiping Talos and pushing for Skyrim to become independent of the Empire, and I can hardly fault him for that._

_“On the other hand... he’s racist. Thinks that only Nords should be able to live in Skyrim.” His voice broke, but he went on anyway. “You weren’t born yet, so you can’t possibly remember this... but when he took control of Markarth, Jarl Ulfric had countless innocents – mostly Bretons – put to the sword because he believed they were agents of the Forsworn. Fortunately, your mother and I managed to flee to Solitude before he arrived in the Reach, but others were not so lucky. Your mother’s family – even the women and children – was slaughtered by his Stormcloaks.”_

_Eyes darkening, the girl bit her lip. “So... if he took control of Skyrim... would all other races be... driven out?”_ Imprisoned? Enslaved? Killed?

 _“I don’t know. I can only pray that that day never comes.” Her father smiled in an attempt to reassure her. “From now on,_ I’ll _go into Windhelm when we need supplies. No sense worrying you with stranger’s stares and all that muttering about politics, eh?”_

_“Aye,” she agreed hastily._

_“Just remember this, my girl.” The man’s eyes met hers: his blue ones to the dark brown ones she’d inherited from her mum. “People like us – the simple hunters and farmers just trying to make a living –_ we’re _the ones with the most power in this world. A jarl may have money and land and titles, but he’s nothing without the support of his people. ‘Course, the sad truth is that many think they are obligated to support their jarl, so they follow him blindly without thinking about what’ll be best for them._

_“You’re an exceptional child, my dear, and I have no doubt that when you’re older, many people will want to possess you and your abilities. Stay strong, and keep your mind free, Kajsa. If you do that, you’ll be your own woman and no one will ever be able to control you.”_

Eyes opening slowly in realization that it was a dream, Kajsa stared blankly at the ceiling for a few moments before sitting up in bed and drawing her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. It was a strangely childlike, unfamiliar position to her, one she had not found herself retreating to since her first night alone in the world all those years ago – yet comforting.

 _Damn Vaermina._ She rested her forehead on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. Thanks to her beastblood, she was unable to sleep restfully, but it seemed that the Daedric Prince of nightmares could still play her cruel little games with her mind. _Out of all the Daedric Princes I could have pissed off, it_ had _to be her..._

She hadn’t thought about her father for several months, not since joining the Companions, but she recalled the memory that had served as her dream. It had been a few months after they’d left Riften behind for the wilderness of northern Eastmarch, starting a new life far from the reach of the Thieves Guild. Somewhere where no one would ever find them: a run-down cabin in the thick of the woods, by a small trickle of a mountain stream. It wasn’t much by anyone’s standards, but it had been home for a short while.

 _If Da was alive, he wouldn’t have approved of me joining the Stormcloaks._ The realization stung slightly. _He may have admired the jarl for upholding the worship of Talos, but the Markarth Incident... even if he’d entertained the thought of joining the Stormcloaks before, he would never have followed Jarl Ulfric after that._

Against her better judgment, she found herself longing for the jarl’s embrace: his strong arms encircling her waist, his fingers running through her hair, his deep voice murmuring that he missed her. She’d felt the same, so alone and isolated after Alduin’s death – even when surrounded by scores of people that loved and respected her – and succumbing to sentimentality had been dangerously simple.

 _How easy_ would _it be?_ a daring, feral part of her wondered carelessly. _His chambers are just down the hall. He’d be sleeping right now, of course, but if I just slipped in the way I am now – wearing nothing but a shirt and my smallclothes – I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being woken up..._

“No,” Kajsa said out loud, her voice breaking the silence of her room. _It’s only the wolf in me talking, the part of me that indiscriminately longs for the hunt and the warmth of blood and the pleasures of the flesh..._

She thought about what it had been about Ulfric’s touch that made her want him so: nothing, save for old aches longing to be relieved. _How long has it been since I was held by another man, anyway?_

 _A year. A year since – since_ it _happened. The last time we... we..._ Her throat constricted, seeming to wind itself up into a hard lump. She hadn’t thought of him for an even longer time, let alone –

 _They are my reason for joining the Stormcloaks,_ she realized, brushing her hair back rhythmically with her fingers and taking a few deep breaths to keep herself together. _I do want Skyrim to be free, but it’s like with my da and the Companions... I’m doing this for them, for_ him _. I didn’t want to a year ago... but so much has changed since then, and so have I._

_And now I need what the Stormcloaks, what the jarl can offer._

_It’s time for me to take my revenge._

In response to her anger, the beast within her howled for the moons and the snow, for the shadows of night, for the thrill of the chase. Instead of ignoring it like she had moments ago, she welcomed it now. _I’m nothing like Vilkas or Farkas or Kodlak. Hircine’s blessing was never mine to tame._

Kajsa grinned, surprising herself with the unexpected gesture, sliding out of bed and grabbing for her knapsack to dig out her extra change of clothes. _Let’s see if I can sublimate some of my urges into killing Galmar’s pesky ice wraith..._


	15. Points of Contention

“Tell me again why we are wasting time and dwindling resources chasing a legend,” Ulfric demanded. “We do not even know it exists!”

Galmar crossed his arms, returning Ulfric’s glare. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we don’t exactly have the full support of all the jarls.”

“Damn the jarls!” Frustrated, the other’s fist slammed into the table; an empty tankard sitting on the edge gave a little jump and then fell to the floor.

“Some of the bastards are demanding the Moot,” his housecarl continued, as if nothing had happened.

“And damn the Moot!” the jarl snarled. “We should risk letting those milk-drinkers put Torygg’s woman on the throne? She will hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver platter.”

“All the more reason, then,” Galmar concluded, miraculously managing to keep his temper in check while delivering his spiel. “The crown would legitimize your claim.”

Ulfric shook his head, his initial rage subsiding into sobriety. “A crown does not make a king. We both know that.”

“True,” the Stormcloak general conceded, “but this one...”

“If it even exists,” the jarl said darkly.

“Oh, it exists. And it’ll be the symbol of the righteousness of our cause.” Galmar’s eyes gleamed with an almost fanatical fervor. “Think about it, Ulfric: the Jagged Crown! It heralds back to a time before jarls and moots, back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him.” He leaned over the table, looking him directly in the eye. “Skyrim needs that king. You _will_ be that king, Ulfric. You and I both know you must be.”

Ulfric sighed reluctantly. _One of the difficulties of having your closest friend lead your army is that they know your weaknesses – and Galmar knows of my fondness for songs and legends._ “Are you are certain you have found it?” he asked.

“When have I ever been false with you?” his housecarl pointed out. “I damn well wouldn’t be wasting your precious time and your ‘dwindling resources’ if I _didn’t_ know where it was. It exists, and for your disbelief, you’re going to owe me a drink when I come back with it.”

“Fine. I will send Kajsa with you when she returns from Serpentstone Island.” The seemingly causal statement was delivered with a piercing look of disapproval.

Galmar knew where this was going. “Don’t you start on me about _that_ again,” he growled. “You may be the jarl and the leader of this movement, but _I’m_ in charge of all of your soldiers. I reserve the right to test anyone whose loyalties are in question and, Dragonborn or not, Red-Blade falls into that category.”

There came a low, light laugh from the doorway. “Not too subtle about your distrust of me, eh, Galmar?” Kajsa, clad in civilian clothing, strode into the war room, tossing a cloth pouch up and down.

It might have been Ulfric’s imagination, but it seemed to him that the general whitened slightly before his face went back to its customary shade of beet-red. “I see you’re still alive. And you brought back the teeth as well.”

The Dragonborn shrugged coolly, flipping the wrapped ice wraith teeth onto the table. “If you _really_ wanted to ensure I didn’t come back, you’d have to be a lot more creative than pitting me against one ice wraith.”

Galmar threw his hands up in the air with a groan. “For Talos’ sake, girl, my intention was not for you to die! It was a straightforward, traditional test to see if your heart was truly backing up your words.”

“So it wasn’t purely because of your long-held grudge against me?” she asked archly.

“There… may have been some elements of that involved,” the housecarl admitted reluctantly, glowering. “You’ve gotten your point across: I was wrong about you. Now, let’s quit dwelling on that and have you take the Oath already, shall we?”

Kajsa frowned. “‘Oath’?”

The Stormcloak general sighed in exasperation. “Before you’re truly one of us, you must swear fealty to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, future High King of Skyrim. You must also pledge unswerving loyalty to your fellow Stormcloaks, to Skyrim, and to her people. Can you do that – or not?” The last sentence held a clear challenge.

The young woman lifted her chin slightly, almost haughtily so. “I _can_.”

Heartened by her defiance, Galmar smiled. “That’s the spirit!” Crossing to a long wooden table pushed back against the side wall, he plucked up a folded Stormcloak uniform, some fur gauntlets and boots, and a leather helmet, and then handed them to the Dragonborn. “Get into uniform, and meet Ulfric and me in the throne room. I’ll issue the Oath there.”

Pulling open the door to the upstairs, Kajsa vanished behind it with her bundle. Wasting no further time, the jarl strode down the corridor and out to the throne room.

Chuckling to himself, his housecarl followed him. “Still too arrogant for my liking, but she’ll make a fine Stormcloak. Anyone who can kill an ice wraith without the protection of armor is good by my book.”

Ulfric nodded absently as he ascended the stone dais to the Throne of Ysgramor. _Did she use her_ thu’um _? Or can she master magic as well?_ “And I thought you two would never reconcile your petty rivalry.”

“When did I say anything about that?” Galmar interjected, his scowl back. “I was only saying I have a little more respect for her!”

The jarl smiled as he seated himself. “Good – because she will _still_ be going with you to dig up the Jagged Crown. I have a feeling that Kajsa will be heavily involved in the ending of this war, and I cannot have you two snapping at each other’s throats like half-starved wolves every time you talk to the other. Think of this as working out your differences.”

As the general opened his mouth to argue, the woman in question stepped into the throne room: clad in the bronze-and-blue Stormcloak armor, her leather helmet tucked under one gauntleted arm. Her customary bow and blade were strapped to her back, and her silver dagger hung at her side. In the fur boots, her feet made almost no sound as she walked across the floor to the foot of the platform.

Ulfric couldn’t help but take a brief moment to appreciate the way the uniform showed off her lean arms and how the belt that crossed over her chest and wrapped around her waist highlighted the curves of her figure. _My colors really do suit her._

He cleared his throat. “Kajsa Red-Blade, are you ready to take the Oath?”

“I am.”

“Then kneel before your jarl and future High King.”

Kajsa silently obeyed, pulling out the edges of her tunic from under her knees as she did so. Ulfric nodded towards his housecarl, signaling him to continue.

“By swearing this oath, you become one of us,” Galmar began. “A heroine and champion of the people. A true daughter of Skyrim. A Stormcloak. Now: place your right fist over your heart.”

An unreadable emotion in her dark eyes, the Dragonborn did so.

“Repeat after me: I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim.”

“I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim.” Her voice sounded quiet and solemn, throwing almost no echo in the huge hall.

“As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond,” the general went on, “even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms.”

“As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms.” Now, her head held high and back straight, she seemed a bit surer of herself.

“All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!” Galmar finished.

“All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!” Her words rang out in the still.

“Then rise, Kajsa Red-Blade, as a Stormcloak.” The housecarl grinned, breaking the gravitas of the atmosphere. “Let’s see if we can end this war with the legendary Dragonborn on our side, eh?”

Kajsa returned the gesture as she stood. “Let’s.”

“One step at a time, girl. By order of Jarl Ulfric –” he shot a meaningful glance at the jarl “– you get to tag along on a little trip with me.”

She bristled at ‘girl’, but her eyes narrowed with interest. “Where to?”

“Korvanjund, just west of here. It’s an –”

“– ancient Nord barrow,” she sighed, finishing his statement. “The name gives it away. What for?”

“Galmar believes it to be the final resting place of the Jagged Crown,” Ulfric supplied. “He’s been obsessed with finding it for months, and now his pouring over every moldy manuscript he could get his hands on has finally paid off.”

The thief raised an eyebrow. “The Jagged Crown? As in:

‘ _Maw unleashing razor snow,_

_Of dragons from the blue brought down,_

_Births the walking winter’s woe:_

_The High King in his Jagged Crown_ ’?”

 “You know your Nord verses,” the Stormcloak general commented, grudgingly impressed.

“The Greybeards inundated me with ancient prophecy and poetry during my stay at High Hrothgar. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about the Crown itself.”

Puffing up with pride at the fact that he knew something that the Dragonborn didn’t, Galmar commenced the history lesson. “Going back to King Harald’s time – or even before – the High King always wore the Jagged Crown, the symbol of his might and power. The crown is made from the bones and teeth of ancient dragons, and it is said to contain a portion of the power of every king who has worn it. But, true or not, who would dare deny Ulfric’s claim when the legendary Jagged Crown sits upon his brow?”

Kajsa’s gaze snapped to Ulfric briefly, eyes searching and suspicious, before addressing the housecarl again. “How do you know the crown is in Korvanjund? Wasn’t it supposed to be _lost?”_

“Well, that’s true,” the other admitted. “The location of the crown was lost with King Borgas, after the Great Hunt killed him while he was off on his damned Alessian campaigns. But legend holds that his body was secretly returned to Skyrim and buried with the crown, its exact whereabouts lost in the following Wars of Succession. Through sources that... shall remain nameless, I’ve tracked down what I believe to be the final resting place of King Borgas –”

“Korvanjund,” she finished.

“Exactly. If the crown exists, that’s where it’ll be. But if old King Borgas is indeed buried there, we’re bound to run into trouble of some kind.”

“You should expect plenty of it,” the Dragonborn said flatly, tapping her chin contemplatively. “Why don’t you just point out the barrow on my map and send me there alone instead? I’ve retrieved plenty of items from ancient Nord tombs before and this isn’t much different.”

Galmar snorted. “Like I’d be fool enough to do that. This isn’t just any treasure – this is the Jagged Crown! Legate Rikke’s a student of Nord lore as well, and I bet she’s already persuaded Tullius about the importance of finding it. If the Imperials decide to pay a call to Korvanjund, the traps and draugr will be the least of your concerns.”

“Don’t you think that someone would notice a unit of legionnaires – or for that matter, a group of Stormcloaks – heading towards the same tomb?” the thief retorted. “No one will think twice about a lone traveler. If you want someone to fetch the Jagged Crown undetected, I can get the job done.”

“This isn’t for your personal gain or glory, girl,” the general growled. “This is about winning this war and ensuring the future of Skyrim and, Dragonborn or not, you won’t stand in my way!”

“ENOUGH!”

At the abruptly shouted command, Kajsa and Galmar stopped bickering and glanced up at a stern-faced Ulfric, who stood and drew himself up to his full height.

“ _Both_ of you will be going to Korvanjund with a unit of Stormcloaks. Galmar will lead the expedition, and Kajsa will offer her expertise as needed. The success of this mission depends on the both of you working together, _not_ on the both of you plotting to outdo the other.” He glared at the two of them. “I assumed that you were both professionals – so I suggest that you start acting as such. Do I make myself clear?”

His housecarl bowed his head briefly. “Yes.”

“Abundantly,” the Dragonborn said coldly.

“Good.” The jarl seated himself again. “Now get out of my sight and get over to Korvanjund.”

Turning around, Galmar stomped towards the double brass doors. After an icy look aimed at Ulfric, Kajsa spun on one heel and followed the Stormcloak general out. The abrupt bang of the doors as they slammed behind the two of them, shutting out the winds and ushering in an eerie still, was more than enough to convey all of their resentment.  

Ulfric stared at the doors for a long time, anger at their petty squabbling still simmering under his skin. _It would appear that I have not seen the last of my troubles with the Dragonborn._


	16. The Jagged Crown

Even in the midst of the snowstorm, the weathered stone arches of Korvanjund were immediately visible; bleak and grim, they stood out against the flat, snow-covered landscape of the Pale. Smoke rising overhead into the grey morning sky indicated that someone had built a fire further within the ruins.

 _Better not be one of my people._ Galmar strode up to the small band of Stormcloak soldiers huddled behind a nearby snow bank by a hollowed-out tree trunk, making his way to a burly Nord with blue war paint across his face. “Hail, Ilfhild.”

“Hail, Galmar,” the captain greeted in kind.

“What’s the situation?”

“Cold as the inside of an ice wraith, though I think you can feel that for yourself.” Ilfhild managed a weak laugh, but sobered. “Some Imperials are camped out around the entrance, staying nice and warm outside their fires.”

 _Damn Imperial spies._ Galmar snorted. “Well, if they’re keeping themselves comfortable, let’s slip in and send them to their graves that way.”

Ilfhild nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

Galmar opened his mouth to call the others, but a whoop from behind startled him. Turning around, the housecarl saw one of the soldiers – _the kid from Riverwood that made it out of Helgen_ – clapping a suspiciously familiar figure in Stormcloak armor on the back.

“I had a feeling you’d join up sooner or later,” Ralof was saying enthusiastically. “We’ll take Skyrim back together, eh?” He lowered his voice. “In any case, I’m glad I’ll have you beside me in there. This place... it chills my blood.”

“What are you talking about?”

The general scowled. As he suspected, it was Kajsa. _So she made it here after all. What in Oblivion took her so long?_

“These old ruins... my father always told me to stay away from them. Good advice, I’d say.” The young Nord shook his head. “But never mind all that. We’ve got a job to do, and nothing’s going to stand in our way.”

“Indeed. It’s good to see you again.” The Dragonborn gave him a brief smile, and then brushed past, walking up to Galmar; somewhere along the way, her smile had frozen. “It would appear that you were right about the Legion,” she said tightly.

 _I usually am. After all, I have the military experience that you lack._ “Fortunately, they don’t seem to know we’re here yet – should give us a little fun.” The housecarl unsheathed his iron battleaxe and gripped it securely; he’d made sure to sharpen the blade before leaving Windhelm, and he was itching to test it. “Ready to spill some Imperial blood for Skyrim, Unblooded?”

She raised an eyebrow at the degrading nickname. “‘Unblooded’?”

Galmar shrugged, trying not to smile at her reaction. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve spilled plenty of blood – just not in Ulfric’s name.”

The Dragonborn’s face darkened, but she drew her thin katana from off her back, flexing and rolling her wrists experimentally before sheathing her sword again. “Then allow me to get started.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Galmar faced the other Stormcloaks, resting his battleaxe on one shoulder. “Listen up!”

Turning to him, the other soldiers waited expectantly for their orders.

“Those Imperials aren’t here by coincidence. Their commander knows of the Jagged Crown, and their spies must have found out that we do as well. They don’t want us to have it, but those soldiers of theirs down below don’t have a chance of standing in our way.” Galmar paused, scanning their faces: some anticipating, others hesitant. “I know that some of you are ex-Legion and may know men on the other side. But remember this: they are the enemy now, and they will _not_ hesitate to kill you.”

A few Stormcloaks nodded, understanding. The more uncertain-looking ones glanced back and forth, their faces settling into a more resigned look.

“Just keep your wits about you and watch your shield-brother’s back,” the housecarl continued. “Jarl Ulfric is counting on us to bring him back that crown, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Hefting his battleaxe, he pointed to each of them in turn, indicating the shield-sibling of each. “Gretta, you’re with Engar. Ilfhild, you’re with Ralof. Hroa, you’re with Thurek. Red-Blade –” he grimaced, realizing she was the only one left, but soldiered on “– you’re backing me, so don’t try anything stupid.

“All of you, follow me. Quickly and quietly, now. I want their guts on the ground before they even know we’re here.” Crouching down as far as he could, he tramped up the snow-covered hill, weapon out.

Kajsa, much more nimble than he, caught up to him easily. “Do you honestly think I would harm my shield-sibling?” she asked archly. “You seem to forget who I was training with for the past months.”

“You’re not with the Companions now, Unblooded – you’re with me. And I like to hedge my bets when it comes to _you._ ” Ducking behind a fallen pillar, the housecarl peered down below. A few Imperials were patrolling the stairways, but the patrol outside the tomb seemed fairly light. _Ripe for the picking._ “Though your pitiful excuse for a greatsword would do more good in a legionnaire’s back than mine.”

Her nostrils flared as she glared at him, but she jerked her head towards the entrance to Korvanjund. “How about we go get that crown and we’ll see just how many Imperials I kill with _my_ greatsword?”

“Sounds good.” Standing up without any hesitation, Galmar charged down the crumbling steps with a war cry. Startled, the Imperial on the first landing glanced up, but then fell back as the general’s battleaxe cleaved through his skull.

Upon seeing their comrade fall, the other soldiers drew their swords and ran towards the Stormcloaks. Shouting at the men and women behind him to spread out, Galmar slashed through another Imperial, turning around to ward off another.

His new opponent collapsed with an arrow piercing his throat. Startled, the housecarl’s head whipped around to see the Dragonborn leaping lightly down from a rocky outcropping, her craggy black longbow in one hand.

“Good shot!” he hollered as the last of the Imperials fell to the ground, courtesy of Ralof’s warhammer.

Kajsa inclined her head in acknowledgment. “For such a head-on approach, you weren’t so bad yourself.” Stashing her bow on her back, she drew her katana again. “Let’s go. There’s more of them up ahead.” Dodging around him, she sprinted up another set of icy stone steps, skittered across a narrow walkway, and, after climbing a third treacherous stairway, darted under a low archway.

“Wait up, Unblooded!” The general dashed after her, followed by the ragtag band of Stormcloaks. He ascended the final few steps just in time to hear a strangled gurgle and the slick sound of a blade being withdrawn from human flesh.

Galmar ducked into the alcove, only to see Kajsa calmly wipe off her sword with a handful of snow, two dead Imperials at her feet. Judging by the position of their bodies, the soldiers had fallen from behind twin pillars, rendering them virtually hidden from a distance. _How in Oblivion did she know they were up here?_

“That takes care of that.” His shield-sister stood, unclenching her hand and letting the bloodied snow in her hand fall to the ground. He wasn’t sure if it was his eyes playing tricks on him, but in the dim light, her eyes seemed to gleam with an animal intensity. “It was a good fight.”

“That’s the way I like it,” the housecarl agreed. “Short and bloody. They never knew what hit them.” He turned to address the clump of Stormcloaks behind him. “But do _not_ make the mistake of underestimating the Legion. Plenty of them are Nords, same as us. We had the advantage of surprise this time, but things won’t be so easy from here on out.

Smiling, he brandished his battleaxe. “But enough talk. We’ve got Imperials to kill.”

* * *

Crouched behind a pile of fallen rubble, Galmar scanned the scene ahead of them. A small group of Imperials, all armed to the teeth, either paced back and forth over the stone dais, patrolling the area, or sat warming themselves by the small campfire that flickered off of the exposed stone pillars and archways.

“Pick a man and put him down,” he growled to the others. “We attack on my signal. It’s time to show what you’re all made of.” He jerked his head at Kajsa.

The Dragonborn nodded in silent assent, then withdrew her longbow, nocked an arrow, aimed for one of the lookouts, and fired. The silhouetted Imperial fell instantly.

“For Skyrim!” the housecarl bellowed, charging forward with his battleaxe out, hearing the running footsteps behind him.

While the Imperials were a little better prepared than the last group, the Stormcloaks crashed into them like a wave: hacking and slashing, cutting the soldiers down. Galmar took out one of them by hooking the handle of his weapon around the back of the Imperial’s neck, and then sharply jerking it forward, hearing the bones snap.

There was a cry from behind him, and as he turned around, the general saw Thurek hit the stones. The legionnaire he had been fighting didn’t last much longer; Ilfhild and Hroa plunged their greatswords into him almost immediately afterwards.

Driven by the loss of their comrade, Gretta, Engar, and Ralof killed two more Imperials in near-rage. In stark contrast, the Dragonborn coolly slashed open a tendon in the last soldier’s leg, and then decapitated him when he collapsed to the floor.

Breathing heavily, Galmar turned to address his Stormcloaks. _And the first man falls..._ “Gretta, Engar: stay here and guard the entrance. We don’t want any Imperial reinforcements taking us by surprise. See if you can find something to wrap Thurek’s body in; we’ll need to take it back to Windhelm for burial.”

The two soldiers nodded grimly and headed in the opposite direction.

“The rest of you lot –” the housecarl gestured to Ilfhild, Hroa, Ralof, and Kajsa “– are with me. Stay on your guard.”

* * *

“I don’t like the look of this,” Galmar muttered, scowling distrustfully at the narrow hallway before them. “Perfect spot for an ambush. Ten to one chance they’re just waiting for us on the other side.”

“But there isn’t any other way through,” Hroa protested.

“You sure about that?” the general shot back sardonically. “Then, please: by my guest and go strolling on in there. We’ll all stay here and watch your back.”

Reddening, the Stormcloak woman quieted.

“Not so sure?” Galmar deliberately slowed his tone, as if he was talking to a young child. “Perhaps we should take a moment to look around a little, eh?” Satisfied that Hroa was properly chastised, he glanced at Kajsa. “What say you, Unblooded? Think you can find another way through? You’re the one that treks through these gods-damned barrows to rob them blind, after all.”

The Dragonborn shrugged. “You’d be surprised at the amount of hidden passages there are in these places. The ancient Nords were anything but straightforward when it came to their architecture.” Whipping out her longbow, she slunk towards the stairway they’d come down, sidestepping the bodies of the Imperials they’d slew. “I’ll take a look around.”

“Good. We’ll charge in to help as soon as we hear fighting.”

Slipping into the shadows, Kajsa crept up the stairs and out of sight. Unsheathing his battleaxe and motioning for the others to ready themselves, Galmar waited impatiently.

It didn’t take long before he heard the sound of something shattering on stone – _a pot, perhaps?_ – followed by a scream of terror. On the dim floor at the end of the corridor, shadows of flames danced over it.

“Let’s go!” The general barreled down the low stairs and burst out into a lofty-ceilinged chamber, with wooden beams and platforms supporting crumbling stone. The alerted Imperials at the other end came at them, but the Stormcloaks easily dispatched them with a few swings of their respective weapons.

An arrow whizzed past Galmar’s head, shot by an archer shifting position up and down a new stairway leading further into the ruins. With a _thud_ behind him, Kajsa leaped off the rotting platform that she’d just landed on and ran forward with her blade in hand. Before the Imperial could steady his aim, he crumpled under a swing of her katana.

“Let’s keep going, shall we?” She cleared the rest of the stairs and darted around the slatted wooden walls.

Puffing and panting in an attempt to catch his breath, the housecarl and the other Stormcloaks followed her down a semi-circular stone hallway until she turned a corner and slipped into another chamber. As the battle cry of an Imperial echoed off the walls and then abruptly died, Galmar entered after her to see the Dragonborn examine the contents of a burial urn, a dead legionnaire sprawled beside her.

“Put that down,” he snapped, striding forward and snatching the jar out of her hands, placing it gingerly back on the shelf from which it came. “You disrespect the dead that are buried here.”

“You mean the ones that are actually dead or the draugr?” Kajsa nonchalantly tucked a gleaming amethyst into the coin purse on her belt. “Either way, I doubt they’ll have need of trifles such as this.”

The general opened his mouth to retort, but he was interrupted by Hroa’s hushed, disbelieving voice. “By the nine holds... what is that – that _thing_?”

Both of them turned around to see the other Stormcloaks standing in fearful curiosity around the corpse of a draugr. Even though it had no armor and was obviously long since dead, the grey, shriveled muscle and sinew stretched over ancient bones was still enough to make it look eerily aliv.

“Draugr,” Ilfhild supplied. “Ain’t you ever seen one before?”

“No, and I’m not sure if I’m better off for it now, neither.”

“Steady.” Galmar joined the little group around the draugr and gruffly clapped the trembling Hroa on the back. _Last time she’s ever under my command. The green ones are impossible to work with._ “A few dusty bonewalkers aren’t going to stop us anymore than the Imperials could.”

The Stormcloak woman looked unconvinced.

Kajsa chose that moment to speak up. “Draugr may look fearsome, but their one saving grace is that they’re stupid. If you get the drop on them before they know you’re there, they’re easily slain.”

Taking note of the information, the housecarl jerked his head towards the next narrow doorway. “You heard the Unblooded. Besides, we’re not leaving until we get what we came for. Now, let’s keep moving.”

* * *

The long, low hallway stretched on for an indeterminable distance, fading away into dusty air. Rounded stone arches with prominent keystones supported the ceiling, and gnarled tree roots sprawled across the floor. Dying candlelight lit the elaborate carvings on the walls, and cracked burial urns lined the sides of the passageway. It was clearly older than the ruins they’d passed through earlier, but still incredibly well-preserved.

Galmar caught his breath in wonder and sheathed his battleaxe out of respect for the knowledge contained here. “Ah! The Hall of Stories... we must be getting close now.”

“I’ve heard of this,” Hroa piped up, eager to redeem herself. “They say these walls show the history of the ancients who built this place.”

“Too bad we can’t read these carvings.” Brushing away a thick tapestry of cobwebs, Ilfhild squinted at one of the murals. “Who knows what secrets we’d uncover?”

“One thing at a time,” the general said, irritated. “We’re here for the Crown. Any of these carvings show a crown?”

Ralof and Hroa obediently joined Ilfhild in scanning the carvings for a clue. Kajsa, on the other hand, crouched by two fallen Imperials in front of a monstrous metal door: barely rusting, but still imposing and ominous. She lifted up a small statuette of an ebony dragon’s claw from beside one of the bodies, scrutinizing the underside carefully.

The housecarl strode to her side. “What’d you find?”

“The key to this door.” She continued her examination of the claw.

“Doesn’t look like a key to me,” Galmar commented. “Looks like a claw.”

The Dragonborn smirked. “Regardless of _what_ it looks like, it’s the only thing capable of opening this puzzle door. I can only hope that the Imperials snagged the right one; if this doesn’t work, we have no other chance of getting through.”

“Which begs the question: _how_ did the Imperials get their hands on it?” the general growled.

“It’s easier than you might think.” Handing him the claw, Kajsa gripped one of the rings set into the door, the largest one on the outside rim, and started turning it to the right. “Most people think that the claws are just harmless curiosities. For instance, I knew of a general goods store owner who obtained a golden dragon claw –” she switched to the middle ring “– and displayed it right on his front counter.” Pausing to take a breath, Kajsa moved on to the final ring. “And yet for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine _why_ the claw was the only thing that was taken when his store got robbed by a band of decidedly criminal treasure-hunters delving into a barrow near town.”

“Idiot,” Galmar snorted. “So what you’re saying is that these claws could be anywhere in the world? Not just in some museum or private collection?”

“Exactly. I still have no idea how people end up with them.” Taking the ebony claw from him, the Dragonborn fit the talons into the three evenly spaced keyholes in the center of the door and pushed in.

With a cloud of dust and a scratching of stone on metal, the rings spun around as the door slowly sank into the floor. Kajsa snatched the claw away before it vanished along with the door, tucking it into the patched knapsack on her back.

The housecarl just sighed and shook his head before cupping his hands around his mouth and calling to the other Stormcloaks. “Alright, everyone! Let’s move – and keep your guard up. No telling what we’ll find down here.”

* * *

As it turned out, their fears of running into hordes of draugr were ill-founded. The only undead they had encountered was a small group of two or three draugr wights that had been awakened while the Stormcloaks were attempting to raise a rusty portcullis that blocked off their route. While Galmar scoffed at their clumsy battle skills, he privately thought that the ice-eyed fiends were... a _little_ terrifying to behold.

Fortunately, once they had recovered from their initial shock at seeing the corpses shambling towards them, the soldiers had dispatched them quickly enough. Ilfhild had his thigh cut open by a greatsword that one of them had carried, but Ralof had bandaged it up enough to mend the wound until they could return to Windhelm. As for Hroa, who had been left trembling and wide-eyed with fear afterwards, Kajsa had just dryly recounted the story of facing a bloodthirsty host of twenty or so draugr during her Trial for the Companions. The housecarl had a difficult time restraining a chuckle when he saw the expression on Hroa’s face.

But right now, all Galmar could do was gape at the wonders of the vast chamber before him. Pillars, carved with solemn faces and stylized birds’ heads, snaked up towards the lofty ceiling, and a single stone brazier hung over the very center of the room. Directly underneath it was a throne made of iron and what appeared to be bone, flanked by two freestanding black coffins.

Slumped forward on the throne was an emaciated, skeletal figure, clad in armor of the ancient Nords – and on his brow rested what could only be the Jagged Crown: a helmet of beaten, undimmed steel, set with dragon bones and crowned with the razor-sharp deadly teeth of the beast.

Shaking himself out of his awe, the general made to take a step forward.

A slender, yet powerful hand clamped down on his forearm. “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?” Kajsa hissed.

“Are you blind, Unblooded?” he demanded of her. “The Jagged Crown is right _there!_ ” His last word was punctuated with a jab of his finger at the body of King Borgas. “We’re getting it and then we’re getting out of this gods-forsaken place!”

“My eyesight’s very keen, thank you very much,” the Dragonborn rejoined icily. “Perhaps you need to check yours, Stone-Fist. The corpse that’s wearing your precious Jagged Crown is a draugr, a _deathlord_ , by the looks of it. You walk over there and you’ll have a blade through your gullet in no time.”

“Oh, really? How would you know _that?_ ”

“I can smell it: dust and undeath. Trust me when I say that that is no dead body.” Under her leather helmet, her face was deathly serious. “Let me make the first move.”

Galmar sighed; he would have thrown up his hands in exasperation if not for the iron battleaxe in his grip. “Be my guest.” _Her counsel has proved... somewhat useful thus far. Why not now?_

Creeping forward, Kajsa upturned her palms, conjuring two dark purple voids that roiled over them in chaotic unison. She made a swift throwing motion upwards; there was a shimmer of magic as twin shortswords with jagged, curving blades appeared in her hands.

Suddenly, the Dragonborn’s Voice rang through the chamber: “YOL – TOOR SHUL!”

Flames burst from her mouth, shooting towards and licking at the corpse. Jerking its head up, the draugr deathlord stood unsteadily and drew its weapon: a beautiful, yet deadly ebony battleaxe. As it did so, the lids on the tombs beside the throne cracked and splintered as two other draugr stumbled from the wreckage.

Kajsa wasted no time. She leapt forward at King Borgas with a chilling war cry, sweeping her swords before her and knocking the draugr back.

“Come on! Let’s get ‘em!” The housecarl charged into the fray, catching one of the weaker draugr in the shoulder with his battleaxe. Hissing curses in a guttural tongue at him, it dislodged itself from the blade and shot a frostbite spell at him.

“What, magic? Don’t make me laugh.” Lifting his weapon over his head, Galmar brought it down with all his might, cleaving the corpse’s skull in two and cracking its neck. It crumpled to the ground, the unearthly light in its eyes flickering out.

The general whirled around to catch a glimpse of the battle behind him. Ralof and Ilfhild were fending off the other draugr while shielding a bloodied Hroa. Kajsa’s blades flickered with speed as she danced around King Borgas, laughing scornfully. But the undead king, swinging his weapon with frightening ease, was quickly wearing her out.

“Need a little help, Unblooded?” Not waiting for an answer, the housecarl rushed forward and hacked at the draugr’s side.

As the corpse whipped around to face its new enemy, the Dragonborn stabbed her bound blades between King Borgas’ ribs. She then planted her foot on its back and tugged them out, letting the now dead king fall to the stones. As she did so, Ralof and Ilfhild swung their warhammers in unison and crushed the final draugr to the ground.

Galmar frowned at Kajsa. “You good?”

“More than.” She was breathing heavily from the exertion of battle, her spell, and using the Voice, but her eyes were alight with a primeval savagery. “And I think you can take back your little nickname. I’m plenty blooded now.”

“Aye. That you are.” _Maybe I was wrong about her. Little early to tell, though._ The general gestured at King Borgas. “Get that crown off the draugr and take it back to Windhelm. And tell Ulfric that he owes me a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads-up: the next chapter of the repost needs a TON of work. Revising, re-writing, the whole nine yards. So it might be a while before you see another chapter, but rest assured, I _am_ working on it.
> 
> Thanks, and enjoy the holiday season!


	17. Acts of Treason (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for those of you who might be triggered by it: this chapter has some non-consensual content. I have updated the tags accordingly, but I wanted to make a note of it here just in case.

Fist raised and poised over the metal door, Kajsa paused for a moment. _Will he still be awake at this hour?_

She’d finally trudged through the gates of Windhelm late in the evening, when the snow whipped up around the cold stone walls and most respectable folk were safe inside their snug houses. When she’d reached the Palace of the Kings, the Dragonborn was mildly surprised not to find him in either the main hall or the war room. Upon tracking down Jorleif, the tired steward had pointed her in the direction of the jarl’s chambers. After dropping off her pack, her weapons, and her helmet in her quarters, she’d walked right up to his door, the Jagged Crown in her hands – and stopped in her tracks.

To say that she was hesitant about barging into Ulfric’s rooms in the dead of night was an understatement. The Dragonborn had not forgotten her beastblood-fueled fantasy from a few nights before, and it still lingered in the back of her mind. _When it comes to keeping the wolf in me under control, I’m nowhere near Vilkas’ level. If I lose control of my inhibitions..._

 _I’ve made the Change recently; that should be enough to the beastblood in check for a little while longer,_ she dismissed. _Besides, it’s the Jagged Crown. He’ll definitely wake up for that._

She rapped sharply on the door. “Jarl Ulfric?”

“Who is it?” Even with his voice muffled by the door, the jarl sounded much more alert than she’d expected.

 _Apparently, I’m not the only one with trouble sleeping._ “The Dragonborn.”

His response was immediate. “Come in.”

Opening the door and slipping inside, Kajsa carefully shut the door behind her, keeping the Jagged Crown hidden behind her back. Unlike the rest of the Palace of the Kings, the jarl’s quarters were warm and cozy, the firelight from the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. Even though stone, steel, and the silvery blue of the Eastmarch colors dominated the space, the elegantly carved wooden furniture took some of the chill away.

Ulfric was seated at his desk, frowning over some papers, but he looked up as she entered. “Back already from Korvanjund already? I hope that means the operation was a success.” His tone was expectant, but warning.

The Dragonborn withdrew the Jagged Crown from behind her. “I believe you owe Galmar a drink.”

He stood instantly, nearly knocking the chair over, and crossed to her. Seizing the Jagged Crown from her hands, the jarl stared at it in awe before letting out a peal of booming laughter. “Damn him – the old bear was right after all!”

“I’d be prepared for a lot of gloating when he returns to Windhelm,” Kajsa advised.

“I will start steeling myself for the onslaught.” Giving the ancient crown a last, admiring look, Ulfric placed it on the near corner of his desk. “You say Galmar is not back in Windhelm yet?”

“He and the rest of the Stormcloaks are still at Korvanjund. Scouting the area, making sure the Imperials aren’t any further into Eastmarch.”

The jarl paused, one hand still lingering on the Jagged Crown. “So Galmar was right about that as well,” he said dryly. “How many?”

“A scouting unit with a few legionnaires. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“That is what I like to hear.” Ulfric settled himself into one of the two chairs around the circular table by the door and uncorked the bottle of mead resting on the tabletop. “I trust you left none alive?”

“Between us, the traps, and the draugr, they’re all taken care of.”

“Good. If getting his hands on the Jagged Crown was part of his plan to put Jarl Elisif on the throne, that will set back that bastard Tullius quite a bit.” The jarl gestured to the other, vacant seat across from him. “Come. Share a drink with me.”

The Dragonborn hesitated, then sat down, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “What are we drinking to this time?”

“Nothing in particular.” Pouring some mead into two silver goblets, Ulfric handed one of them to her and kept the other for himself. “Just a celebratory drink.”

“To honor my joining the Stormcloaks?”

“That, and your successful retrieval of the Jagged Crown.” Clinking his goblet against hers, the jarl drank deeply. “Both are events to commemorate.”

Kajsa’s brows rose. _Because of my achievement... or what it means for you?_

Ulfric’s gaze drifted from her to the Jagged Crown, and she followed his gaze; in the candlelight, the dragonbone set in the crown seemed to glow. For a moment, the shadows cast on it seemed to be from some larger fire, some conflagration that would make a sky red and clouded with smoke, but then she blinked and the candlelight returned. And yet, the Dragonborn still heard the ringing of steel on steel and battle cries echoing in her ears – or at least, she _thought_ she did.

_Is this the beastblood’s work? So strong... and much too soon..._

“Striking, is it not?”

The jarl’s comment pulled her out of her thoughts. “Yes,” she replied briefly, taking a sip of her drink to avoid speaking further.

“I grew up hearing stories of the Jagged Crown, but to see it in all its glory...” Ulfric paused, gazing reverently at the crown. “Fit for a king. A _true_ High King.”

“A High King like you?” she asked archly.

Brow furrowing, he scrutinized her, trying to find some ulterior motive behind her question. “And what makes you say that?” he finally asked, a note of black humor in his voice.

“No one chases after a historical artifact of immense power just to put it on a shelf and have it look pretty,” the Dragonborn pointed out sardonically. “If you win the war, you’re planning to use the Jagged Crown to convince the Moot of the validity of your claim to the throne, aren’t you?”

Face contemplative, Ulfric was silent for a moment before he responded. “There has not been a _true_ High King in Skyrim for generations. For too long, he has been hand-picked by the Emperor and given emphatic nods by milk-drinking jarls addicted to Imperial coin. I believe it is time we had a real king. One of our own making.”

“One of _your_ own making?” she cut in, eyebrow raised. “Is that why you and your Stormcloaks are fighting this war? To fulfill your own selfish ambitions and crown yourself as High King?”

The jarl glared at her. “We fight because we are done bleeding for an Empire that refuses to bleed for us. Untold numbers of Nords died defending the Empire against the Dominion – and for what? Skyrim being sold to the Thalmor so the Emperor could keep his throne!” His last sentence, nearly shouted in anger, rang throughout the room.

“We are fighting because our own jarls, once strong and wise men and women, have become fearful and blind to the suffering of their people. We are fighting because Skyrim needs heroes, and there is no one else but us.” He caught her gaze, his blue-green eyes roiling like a stormy sea. “And if Skyrim is to be saved, there is no one else but I who can be High King.”

“Noble justifications for regicide,” Kajsa said, unable to keep the mocking out of her voice.

“I killed Torygg to prove our wretched condition,” Ulfric snapped. “How is the High King supposed to be the defender of Skyrim if he cannot even defend himself?” His fingers tightened around his goblet as he drank again. “No ‘murder’ was committed. I challenged him in the traditional way, and he accepted.” He smiled grimly. “But the witnesses to our duel will attest that he did not stand a chance against me.”

“Because you used the Voice,” the Dragonborn finished. “I’ve heard the rumors about how your _thu’um_ ripped him apart, but I have a hard time believing that.”

For the first time since she arrived with the Jagged Crown, the jarl laughed. “Not entirely true, though not entirely false either. Any Nord – not just those with the right blood, Dragonborn – can learn the Way of the Voice by studying with the Greybeards, given enough ambition and dedication. My shouting Torygg to the ground proved he had neither. However it was my sword piercing his heart that killed him.” His face darkened again.

“But that was precisely the point! He was a puppet king of the Empire, not a High King of Skyrim! His father before him, perhaps, but not Torygg.” Ulfric’s tone turned scathing. “He was too privileged and too foolish, more interested in entertaining his queen than ruling his country. _Elisif_.” He snorted derisively.

“Upon being widowed, it was _she_ who was made Jarl of Solitude – historically and conveniently the home of the High King. The Empire may treat her as royalty, but the Moot has not yet met to name her High Queen. And they will not dare.” The look in his eyes was grimly challenging. “Not as long as _I_ have any say in it. Not as long as this war still rages.”

There was a brief, but tense moment of silence between them. Kajsa, unwilling to break it, settled for taking another sip of her mead.

The jarl’s gaze bored into her. “Why this interrogation, these accusations?” he asked, and his voice was low and angry. “I was under the impression that you joined my army because you believed in this cause.”

“We can’t all be believers,” the Dragonborn said simply.

“If not a free Skyrim, what _do_ you believe in?” he challenged. “Is there anything you would fight for until your last breath – beyond gold?”

Her lip curled in a snarl at the insult. “ _I believe_ that the last time you tried to take control of Skyrim, your men slaughtered countless Bretons because they _might_ have been Forsworn agents,” she spat.

Ulfric laughed, but it was short and humorless. “Do not act sanctimonious, Red-Blade. For one, it does not suit you, and we both know that you have probably killed more people singlehandedly than I have with a whole army.”

The wolf within her clawed at her ribs, demanding release. Biting down hard on her lip, Kajsa checked herself – barely. A smug smile was playing on his lips, the one that signaled he thought he had the upper hand, and she wanted nothing more than to slap it off his face, but she settled for glaring at him.

“Now then,” the jarl continued in a slightly calmer tone, draining his goblet and setting it down on the table as he stood, “on to business. I have a message of great importance that I need delivered.”

 _I may run all over Skyrim, but I’m not a damn courier._ “What is it?” she asked brusquely, taking another sip from her goblet.

Picking up an elegant steel war axe from the corner of his desk, Ulfric crossed back over to the table and held it out to her. “Deliver this axe to Balgruuf the Greater, Jarl of Whiterun.”

Kajsa nearly choked on her mead. _He can’t mean –_

“There is no need to say anything to him,” the other continued, blind to her sudden shock. “Men who understand each other often have no need for words. There are but a few simple truths behind one warrior giving another his axe.” He smiled, but his eyes were hard. “Balgruuf will know my meaning.”

The wolf within suddenly snarled, and the Dragonborn slammed down her goblet on the table as she stood. “I will _not_ do this.”

“Really?” Ulfric’s voice was dangerously low. “And why is that?”

“Why?” _Why?_ ” she repeated incredulously. “You’re commanding _me_ , a Thane of Whiterun, to waltz into Dragonsreach and deliver an ultimatum to Balgruuf. You are _using_ me!”

The jarl let out another peal of booming laughter at her indignant anger. “Yet again with the self-righteousness. For a woman with no scruples, I would not have guessed you to be this noble.”

“This isn’t about me being noble,” the Dragonborn hissed between her teeth, fists clenching. “It’s about betrayal. I know the people of Whiterun, and they look up to me and respect me as a thane and as the Harbinger –”

“– which is why I am sending you,” Ulfric finished coolly, folding his hands behind his back. “There is no love lost between Jarl Balgruuf and me, but he appears to hold your counsel and friendship in high esteem. It is my hope that you can convince him of my need for his support.”

“You mean your need for his land? His resources?” Kajsa said scornfully. “And what if he refuses? Would you have me cross blades with my kinsmen or my shield-siblings to take Whiterun?”

The jarl’s eyebrows rose. “I was under the impression that the rest of the Companions would remain neutral.”

“Then you clearly don’t know them as well as I do,” she shot back bitingly. “If Whiterun is attacked, they _will_ defend the city to their dying breaths.”

“I would expect nothing less of them. The Companions are known for their loyalty and their honor... but not in the case of their Harbinger.”

“It doesn’t matter that I’m not as ‘honorable’ as the rest of them,” the Dragonborn argued, her voice rising and feeling a furious heat seep into her cheeks. “What I’m doing is the right thing to do. I’m choosing to back Whiterun Hold and its people –”

“– at the expense of your fellow Stormcloaks.” Ulfric’s disapproving frown deepened further into something darker; his rage, hidden thus far under his unruffled composure, was beginning to break through. “You would forsake them and me in favor of casual allegiances?”

Kajsa smiled viciously, wolf’s teeth in her jaws. “You asked me what I fight for, _my jarl,_ if not for gold. I fight for my home and my comrades – and I consider neither of them to be in Windhelm.”

Taking a step forward, the jarl advanced on her, a warning gleam in his eyes. “You swore your blood, your honor, and your service to me, Red-Blade. We are bound together now, and only death will release you from your vows – taken falsely or not.”

“I know how an oath of fealty works!” she snapped, taking an instinctual step away from him and finding herself backed against the cold stone wall.

Stepping towards her again, Ulfric now loomed over her, entirely too close for comfort. “You may be freed from the chains of fate and destiny, but you are still not your own woman. As a Stormcloak, you answer to me now and obey me without question.” Catching the underside of her chin with one hand, the jarl forced her to look into his eyes, now wrathful and threatening. “Understood?”

Kajsa glared back at him. “You. Don’t. Own. Me,” she spat, raising her hands to push him away.

It happened in an instant. His powerful hands clenched around her wrists and wrenched them up over her head, pinioning them against the wall. Pressing the whole of his bulk against her slight body, holding her in place, Ulfric’s mouth crushed down on hers.

_The manacles held her hands above her head, against the wall, but his hands were still locked around her wrists, gripping them tight enough to bruise bone. His mouth was on hers, a mockery of a kiss; she tried to pull away, but he only pressed harder._

_“Do not struggle,” he murmured, his teeth grazing against her lips. “You are not in a position to, my dear.”_

_Heart hammering in her chest, she jerked her head back, wincing as her skull cracked against stone, and kicked out with her legs, thrashing wildly. Instantly, one knee was shoved up between her thighs, and one hand seized her neck, his long fingers wrapping around it and curling –_

_She gasped for breath, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as her vision swam in and out. His mouth ground down on hers even more forcefully, stealing her air, and his hand left her other wrist and traveled down, fingertips digging into her bruised and bleeding flesh and making her scarred skin crawl._

_“Please,” she pleaded, her voice hoarse from screaming._ “Please _– don’t –”_

 _He paused then, golden eyes gleaming. “My dear,” he said, and his tone was full of wonder and adoration as he released her neck, his fingers brushing up over her jaw and cheeks, “you have no idea how long I have waited for you to_ beg _.”_

_Then his other hand pressed between her thighs, hard and insistent, and her choked sob was stifled by his mouth, now curved into a triumphant smile._

The scream that ripped from her throat mingled with the howl of the wolf as she lashed out with all the strength she had. Yanking her wrists down from the wall, her hands slammed into his chest, shoving him away from her as hard as she could.

His mouth leaving hers, the jarl staggered back, grabbing the back of his chair to right himself. He stared at her in shock; whether it was from her reaction or her beastblood-given strength, she did not know. “Kajsa –” he began.

Rage and fear coursing through her, the Dragonborn turned on her heel, yanked open the door, and stomped out, slamming it behind her with a ferocity that rattled its hinges. Stalking down the hallway, her breath coming in irregular gasps, she tore open the door to her room; after a glance over her shoulder confirmed that Ulfric hadn’t followed her, she slipped inside.

Closing and locking the door behind her with shaking hands, Kajsa’s legs finally gave way and she sank to the floor. Wrapping her arms around herself, she let her head fall to her knees as angry, frightened tears came to her eyes.


	18. Acts of Treason (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And here I thought the last chapter was a project. This one required _way_ more of an overhaul than I'd anticipated.
> 
> Quick warning for some dubious consent.
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Little Lion Man," Mumford and Sons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLJf9qJHR3E)

“Any news concerning Whiterun yet?” Galmar sprawled in a chair pushed up against the wall of the war room, nursing a tankard of mead; he and the other Stormcloaks who’d been dispatched to Korvanjund had returned just yesterday morning.

Ulfric, facing the window with his arms crossed and a deep frown affixed to his face, shook his head curtly. “Nothing since Irmin brought those field reports from the officers to me a few days ago.”

“So Red-Blade hasn’t returned yet, either.”

The jarl sighed irritably. “No. She has not.”

Though he hated to admit it and it only made him angrier to think of her, Kajsa had been on his mind ever since he’d given her the order to deliver his axe to the Jarl of Whiterun. He’d known the woman was venomous on occasion and had quite the temper when provoked, but Ulfric had been taken completely aback when she’d lashed out at him instead of seeing the simple cleverness of his plan.

All had not been right with the Dragonborn. Even an addle-brained drunk could have easily realized his intentions of becoming High King, and she was plainly more intelligent than said drunk – yet Kajsa had happened upon that realization as though she’d never thought about it before. She claimed to have no honor, but still declared that her going against Whiterun would be treasonous. The ferocious, predatory gleam in her eyes, the fury in her voice, her body bristling with tension like a wolf ready to leap on its prey... the Dragonborn hadn’t been herself, and the insight made his flesh creep.

And then there was the kiss.

The jarl had no misgivings about his motivations for it, to silence her objections in more ways than one, but her reaction... _that_ was what perturbed him still. As he’d paced in his chambers all the nights since her departure, sleepless with a world of issues on his mind, Ulfric couldn’t help but hear Kajsa’s scream echo in his ears and his chest still ached where her hands had slammed into his ribs. But the look on her face was what haunted him the most: skin drained of color, mouth parted in rage and shock, dark eyes wide and terrified as if seeing a ghost.

Part of him was satisfied at knowing that the Dragonborn could be vulnerable, that she had some chink in her armor to exploit. But another part was strangely disturbed at her sudden instability – _why then? And what cause did she have to be as such?_

In any case, Ulfric had no desire to approach her on the subject of Whiterun after that night, and thus, he’d given his axe to Galmar to deliver it to Kajsa, guessing that she would have done anything to avoid him as well. It worked – when he met his housecarl in the war room later that morning, Galmar reported that the Dragonborn had taken the axe without a word and left.

But it had been a whole day, nearly two, since then, and Kajsa had not returned to Windhelm. Now all his former worry over the Dragonborn had subsided, and suspicion had taken its place.

His housecarl snorted. “You should have just skipped the diplomatic approach and marched on Whiterun. Balgruuf’s as stubborn as a mule; he’s not likely to change his mind about anything, especially if it concerns you.”

“I had to give him a chance to choose to side with us,” Ulfric said, turning back towards the table. “There may be bad blood between him and me now, but... I cannot betray the friendship that we once shared.”

The other’s gaze sobered slightly. “Maybe,” he admitted, shrugging his understanding off. But you only had to give the word, and Whiterun would have been yours, with Balgruuf’s cooperation or without it.”

“It is only a means to an end. The land and its resources will give us the strength we need to take Solitude one day.”

“Strength? That, we have plenty of.” Galmar stood, stretching slightly and rolling his broad shoulders. “I’ve toured our camps. We’re ready whenever you are.”

The jarl let out a short, humorless laugh. “Is any man ever ready to give the order that will mean the deaths of many?” _I have done it before, true... but it is not the kind of thing a good man should get used to._

“No. But neither is every man able to give that order when he must. But you are that man, Ulfric. You’ve been that man before, and you’ll be him again.” The general planted his hands on the table and leaned over it, fixing his gaze on the other from underneath bushy eyebrows. “And these men and women... they call themselves Stormcloaks because they believe in you and what you stand for. They’re the meanest, toughest sons-of-bitches that Skyrim has to offer. And they want this. They want this as much as you do. Perhaps they want it even more.”

Ulfric sighed heavily, but his heart was lighter than it had been before his friend’s words. “Are you certain we will be ready? If Balgruuf sides with the Empire, Whiterun’s army will no doubt be bolstered with Imperial legionnaires. And those walls around Whiterun may be old, but they still stand.”

“Believe me when I say that we’ll be ready if worst comes to worst. I might be old myself, but I’ll kick those damn walls down with my bare feet if you’d only ask me to do it!” Galmar banged his fist on the table for emphasis.

When the jarl laughed, it was genuine. “And I am sure you could do it, too.”

From the throne room, there suddenly came the echoing sound of one of the huge brass doors banging shut.

Ulfric’s eyes snapped to the hallway, the only part of him willing to move. Despite his housecarl’s assurances, he was still hesitant about the prospect of besieging Whiterun and he felt woefully underprepared to receive Balgruuf’s answer.

The jarl tensed as he remembered that there was also Kajsa to consider. He had no way of knowing if she had calmed during the days they’d been apart... or if her sudden, inexplicable anger and fear had only heightened.

Hesitant footsteps shuffled over the floor as a skinny, sandy-haired boy timidly stepped into the war room. Not much older than twelve or thirteen, his fur-lined jacket was worn and patched in places, as was the rest of his clothing and his falling-apart leather shoes. A package loosely wrapped in cloth was tucked under his arm.

Ulfric’s apprehension was not eased; his mounting suspicion had merely joined it. “Who are you?”

“Jeran of Whiterun, my jarl.” His voice was quietly nervous, almost shy. “I – I bear a message.”

Galmar laughed heartily and deeply, the sound of his scorn resounding in the small room. “Is Balgruuf sending green lads to do his work now?”

 _Only if he is gathering all of his able-bodied men to fight..._ Shooting a silencing look at the Stormcloak general, the jarl turned his attention to the boy again. “Speak.”

“Actually, uh, my jarl, it’s not much of a message.” Jeran darted forward to slide his parcel onto the table and then immediately skittered back. “Jarl Balgruuf just commanded me to deliver this to you. As quickly as possible.”

Grasping the hidden object and letting the tattered cloth fall away, Ulfric lifted up a lone steel war axe.

His housecarl sucked in his breath. “Is that –?”

“Yes,” the jarl said grimly, running his fingers over the surface of the steel; the elaborate knotwork on the blade and a deep scratch running parallel to the edge confirmed it as his own. _So Balgruuf has refused my offer after all... but what of Kajsa?_

“Tell me, Jeran,” he began, sliding the war axe into its customary place under his belt, “why did the Jarl of Whiterun choose you to return my axe rather than my own messenger?”

“Um...” The boy shifted his feet uneasily. “He said I was the only person that he could spare at the time. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. I used to work in the kitchens at Dragonsreach, but the cook doesn’t like me because he claims that –”

“Where is the messenger I sent?” Ulfric’s gaze hardened dangerously.

Jeran chewed his lower lip. “Erm...”

“Well?” Galmar barked. “Spit it out, lad! We haven’t got all day!”

“I was there when it happened!” the boy blurted out, eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never seen Jarl Balgruuf so angry –”

Ulfric found his fingers digging into the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. _The Jarl of Whiterun is known for his temper. If he is somehow managed to harm the Dragonborn..._ “Slow down. What happened?”

Jeran gulped and took a few hasty breaths, shaking like a leaf in high winds. “Do you – do you mind if I sit down? I’ve been running his whole day and I’m so tired –”

Wordlessly, the housecarl dragged his chair out from the wall and plunked it down in front of the young courier.

Murmuring his thanks briefly, the boy settled himself into the chair cautiously and glanced worriedly at the jarl, still wary of his clearly unfriendly surroundings. “Your messenger – the Dragonborn thane... she returned to Dragonsreach yesterday evening. To hear what Jarl Balgruuf’s answer was.”

“And he chose to side with the Empire,” Ulfric finished darkly.

Jeran nodded tersely. “And then – the Dragonborn said that she didn’t want to fight him. Or the Companions. The Dragonborn asked him to reconsider, and Jarl Balgruuf refused. Then she – she –” he gulped nervously “– the Dragonborn said she’d stand with Whiterun and – and help defend the city. Against the Stormcloaks.”

The jarl’s breath caught in his throat, his hands now nearly ripping out chunks of wood from the table with the force of his grip on the edge. _How dare she? The audacity of that brazen, infuriating –_

“But then Jarl Balgruuf started shouting at her,” Jeran hurried on, glancing fearfully at Ulfric. “About how she’d already betrayed Whiterun and his trust, how she had the audacity to come into his city wearing your colors. He called her a turncoat, a traitor of the worst kind. Jarl Balgruuf...” Trembling again, he inhaled deeply and then blurted it out. “He stripped her of her property and her thanehood and – and he ordered the guards to – to arrest her and execute her for treason.”

“Is Balgruuf mad?” Galmar scoffed. “No one in their right mind would dare to threaten a messenger in such a manner.”

“What happened then?” Ulfric demanded of the boy through clenched teeth. “Answer me!”

Jeran cowered at the jarl’s sudden wrath, but managed to continue his story. “The guards – they didn’t stand a chance. The Dragonborn flew into some kind of battle rage... she Shouted half of them against the walls and broke their necks on impact – and the other half, she slaughtered without mercy. There was so much blood...” He shuddered involuntarily. “Then – then she fled. Balgruuf ordered the remaining guards in – in Dragonsreach to give her chase and – and only one of them came back.”

The boy’s voice faltered and the pure fear in his eyes grew even plainer. “He was nearly dead. Lost his mind, too. I heard him screaming about – about how – how a monstrous wolf – it had killed them all. How it was like a nightmare come to life.” His breath was starting to come in shallow, terrified gasps. “The jarl sent out more men looking for her this morning and – and that’s when he told me to return this axe in her place. That’s why – that’s why I ran all the way – I was scared the beast might get me, too –” His words choked in his throat and Jeran gulped in attempt to hold back his tears.

The Stormcloak general gruffly patted the shaking boy’s shoulder in a poor attempt at comforting him and then glanced questioningly at the jarl, waiting for a response.

Ulfric’s frown deepened in thought and simmering anger. _As much as I would love to take an eye for an eye, the lad has had a traumatic day._ “Do you know if the Dragonborn has been captured yet?”

Jeran shook his head, biting his trembling lip.

“Thank you for this... _enlightening_ piece of news.” The chill of the jarl’s tone could have frozen flame. “You may show yourself out.”

The boy immediately bolted from the chair and skittered down the hallway. Suddenly, there came the sound of one of the massive doors closing and a frightened yelp. Sighing irritably, Ulfric strode out into the throne room, one hand on the hilt of his axe and with Galmar at his heels, to see what was going on.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Jeran was whimpering to an unknown newcomer in a hooded black robe: knees shaking, his terrified eyes as wide as plates. “Please – mercy!”

“Stop groveling and get going,” snapped a familiar voice. “ _Now_ , before I change my mind about letting you live.”

Darting around the mysterious person, the boy yanked open one of the brass doors and fled from the Palace of the Kings without a glance backwards.

Lifting two fur-gauntleted hands to her hood, the robed figure pulled it back to reveal her identity. It was Kajsa: eyes stormy, mouth tight – and looking as though she’d been dragged through Oblivion and back.

Her helmet was gone, and her tangled, matted hair hung limply around her face. The Stormcloak uniform she wore was torn and tattered around the edges, and looked like it was either stained with drying mud or dried blood. As she ripped off her robe and draped it over her arm, the shallow scratches on her arms became apparent, as did the fact that her fur boots were bound together with leather strips and close to falling apart.

The jarl stared at her, suddenly unsure of how to react. A moment ago, he’d been ready to throttle her for carrying through on her threat and daring to attempt to side with Balgruuf, but now, seeing Kajsa in this state... it was an uncomfortable reminder of how she appeared the last time he’d seen her.

Fortunately, Galmar made the decision for him. “You’re looking well, Red-Blade,” he commented with a trace of sarcasm. “Have a pleasant trip to Dragonsreach?”

“Very funny, Stone-Fist.” The Dragonborn stalked over to the nearest end of the bench positioned by the great table and sat, back stiff and hands clenched into fists. “Judging from the fact that that sniveling brat from Balgruuf’s kitchens left a few moments ago, you already know _exactly_ how it went.” Kajsa glanced over at Ulfric, coolly waiting for his input.

“It would appear that I was wrong about Balgruuf,” the jarl said shortly. He paused, choosing his next words carefully. _There is no avoiding a confrontation with Whiterun now. I must do this._

“Galmar.” He looked towards his housecarl and cleared his throat, already feeling the significance of his unsaid words weighing on him. “Send Irmin to our camps with these words: ‘A new day is dawning, and the sun rises over Whiterun.’”

The Stormcloak general grinned viciously. “Aye – and the children of Skyrim will greet that dawn with teeth and swords flashing.”

Ulfric nodded, returning the gesture. “Get on the road to Whiterun, old friend. I know you are itching to split some Imperial skulls.”

“And it’s about damn time, too.” Cheer still evident on his face, Galmar strode towards the doors of the throne room, jerked one of them open, and vanished into the snowy night, merrily whistling off-key as he went.

Finally, the jarl turned his attention to a silent, unmoving Kajsa, still unsure of what to do or say. _Is she in the grip of the same strange rage as before? If so..._

He let his foreboding thought trail off. “Are you badly injured?”

“No.” The single word was flat, emotionless. “I’m fine.”

“Well enough to fight?”

A pause. “Yes.” No small amount of reluctance there.

“Make haste to our camp nearest to Whiterun, then. Your place is on that battlefield.” _There is a reason you are part of the Stormcloaks – and it is not for your pleasing temperament._

“Many will die by my hand.” Her eyes were dark and unreadable.

“Then I commit them to whatever gods they still believe in.” He bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Talos be with you.”

The Dragonborn did not return the gesture. Rising from her seat, she made for the entrance to the war room without another glance at him.

“Dammit, woman, what fault have _I_ in this?” the jarl burst out, unable to contain his wrath at her indifference any longer. “ _You_ are the one that should be answering for your disobedience – _and_ your attempted treason.”

“It was _loyalty_ ,” Kajsa hissed. “Whatever my differences with the Companions, I have more companionship with my opposition in Whiterun than with my admirers in Windhelm, let alone _you_.”

“Then why did you return?” he demanded. “If you hold such scorn for me, why do you continue to follow me?”

The Dragonborn stopped, still not turning to face him. “I don’t know,” she said bitterly. “I should have left. I should have never even gone to Whiterun. Not after –” She stopped, but her unspoken words hung in the air.

Instinctively, Ulfric caught her hand to stop her. “Kajsa –”

Whirling around, she jerked her hand away as if he’d burned her. “Do _not_ touch me.” Her voice was low with anger. “You have no right to.”

“I am a jarl of Skyrim,” he stated coldly. “I have every right to take what I want.”

The corners of her mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “And I am the Dragonborn, and an honorless assassin besides. I could kill you.”

“But you have not,” Ulfric said, taking a step closer.

“Yet.” Her dark eyes met his, her gaze threatening.

The jarl stared her down, searching her countenance. Her emotions were more plain than he could ever remember them being; there was anger there, but more of uncertainty. More of dread.

“What do you fear, Dragonborn?” he asked quietly.

“Not you.”

 _So you say._ “Not this?” He slowly raised his hand to her face, cupping her cheek: skin dry and cool, smooth save for the scars.

Her jaw tensed. “No.”

“Then what did I witness that night?” _You rejected my touch then. Why not now?_

Kajsa swallowed. “That – is not for you to know.”

Ulfric frowned. _She is hiding something. But what and for what reason?_

“There is much I would ask you, but this is neither the time nor place,” the jarl said finally. “Do you plan to return after Whiterun is taken?” He could not stop the note of black humor from creeping into his voice.

Her lips tightened. “Perhaps.”

“I would speak with you then.” It was not a request.

“You would?” she echoed. “What more would you have of me?”

His thumb brushed over the smallest of her scars, following it to where it ended at the corner of her mouth. “This, if you allow it.”

The Dragonborn fell silent. Ulfric watched her carefully, hoping to gauge her reaction, but her face was still as stone.

Then: “Remove your hand.”

Tightening his jaw, the jarl let his hand fall. He made to turn, but Kajsa tilted her face up, her lips brushing against his. She lingered in the kiss for only a moment – their bodies apart, only their mouths touching – before she pulled away, her dark eyes clouded with regret. Then she silently walked away and vanished from view down the hallway as he stared after her.


	19. Acts of Treason (Part III)

Whiterun was in flames.

The thatched roofs and wooden walls of houses burned; boulders, flung by catapults far beyond the city limits, rained down from the sky and crashed into the cobblestones. In the Winds District, the damage was especially notable – earlier boulders had smashed through sections of the wooden arbor surrounding the Gildergreen sapling, strewing splinters the size of swords over the streets. Smoke from the blazes clouded up the sky and choked out the fiery light of the setting sun. The clashing of steel and the cries of those fighting and those dying filled the air.

Above all, the smell of blood and charred flesh assaulted Kajsa’s senses. The wolf within her howled, clamoring to be released for the hunt: to give chase, to tear apart unprotected flesh with predator’s claws and teeth, to feast on men’s bodies. It was fully awake and ready to kill.

 _No._ Gritting her teeth, the Dragonborn cut down one of the few Whiterun guards foolhardy enough to still engage her in combat. _I will not make the Change. I will not._

“Hey, Red-Blade!” Beside her, Galmar finished bashing in the head of a legionnaire with the flat of his battleaxe. “Ready to pay a little visit to Dragonsreach?”

She smiled grimly, and the wolf bared its teeth. “I was born ready.”

“That’s the spirit!” Kicking the Imperial’s body out of his path, the housecarl whipped his head around to yell back at Ralof. “Come on, boy! We’re going to be late for our appointment with the jarl if you don’t bloody hurry up!”

With a mighty swing of his iron warhammer, Ralof smashed his opponent’s kneecaps, causing the unfortunate guard to crumple onto the cobblestones. Keeping his weapon at the ready, he raced to catch up with the Dragonborn and his commander, now dashing up the high stone stairway to Dragonsreach.

The three of them had led the final charge into Whiterun, running ahead of the horde of Stormcloaks with battle cries on their lips and blades in their hands. Sometimes, Ralof took the lead, smashing the wooden barricades barring their way; other times, it was Galmar taking on two or three Imperials at a time while his companions covered him. But by virtue of the fact that she was younger and more nimble than either of them, Kajsa often took the initiative: scaling the battlements to lower the drawbridge, slicing her way through the defenders with the Ebony Blade and her Thu’um, taunting the enemy with animal laughter in her eyes.

They had made it this far. And now it was time to finish it.

The housecarl barreled over the short footbridge, sweeping his battleaxe under the feet of an oncoming guard and tripping the man, sending him over the railing. Reaching the wooden double doors, Galmar yanked them open by the handles, allowing the other two Stormcloaks to pass through.

Unlike the rest of the city, Dragonsreach appeared untouched by the battle raging outside. The high-ceilinged great hall of white pine and stone, draped with the fluttering yellow banners of Whiterun, retained its cool, serene aura of elegance. The jarl’s palace looked much the same as it had the last time Kajsa had been here – except for the fact that it was almost completely deserted, save for the small clump of people at the far end of the hall.

Jarl Balgruuf sat on his throne: not lounging as he had done so in the past, but sharply alert and darkly determined, clad in a set of steel plate armor. A scowling Irileth paced by his side, fingering the hilt of her sheathed sword. Five Whiterun guards stood at the ready; as the sound of the doors falling shut heralded the arrival of the Stormcloaks, they whipped around, drawing their weapons and advancing on them.

Ralof took a step forward, but the Dragonborn held out an arm to block his path. “I’ll handle this.” Opening her mouth, she roared out the three Words of Power that had been scorching her tongue: “FUS – RO DAH!”

The Shout of Unrelenting Force crashed into the oncoming city guards like a battering ram, sending their bodies flying back into the low steps with a cacophony of sickening crunches. One twitched and groaned, then went limp again.

Galmar stomped past his comrades and headed for the dais, his battleaxe at the ready. “Think you can take me, Balgruuf?”

The Jarl of Whiterun drew a war axe that glinted in the light from the braziers. “I won’t go down without a fight, Stone-Fist. Whiterun will not fall as long as I am Jarl!”

The two men charged each other, and steel and iron clashed against each other, ringing off the walls. Shifting his grip on his warhammer to make sure his hold was secure, Ralof ran ahead to join the fray.

Irileth stepped in front of him, her sword drawn and pointed at his throat. “Not a step closer or I bleed you out.”

The Stormcloak reacted quickly, jerking back and taking a defensive swing at her. Irileth dodged nimbly, charging a magical ward in one hand and then casting it, barely cutting off the crackling bolt of electricity from Kajsa.

The Dunmer noticed her new opponent and sneered. “Dragonborn. What an honor to see you again.”

“I wish the same could be said for you, Irileth.” The Nord woman hefted her katana in both hands and stalked forward with the gait of a wolf.

For a moment, the housecarl’s ward wavered as the shock showed on her face. “What – what is that?”

“You’re a Dunmer, no stranger to the Daedra.” Kajsa rolled her wrists, lazily twirling the Ebony Blade, the traces of red glowing and pulsing within it as it rent the air. “You know perfectly well what this is.”

The horror and surprise on Irileth’s face changed to disgust and disdain. “Of course. I would expect nothing less from a Daedric Champion. Tell me, _Thane_ : was it Mephala’s influence that caused you to turn traitor?”

Rage boiled in her blood and the beast within snarled at the blatant insult. Without another thought, the Dragonborn cleared the space between them in a single lunge and slashed across the breastplate of her enemy’s armor. Irileth staggered back, dropping her sword to try and stop the bleeding, but Kajsa was not yet finished.

“I,” she hissed, catching her opponent’s sword in mid-air and holding both blades at the housecarl’s neck, “am no traitor.”

“Irileth!” Balgruuf’s head whipped around in horror, and at that moment, the handle of Galmar’s battleaxe caught him in the gut and forced him to his knees. The jarl raised his own weapon to retaliate, but Ralof, who’d jumped into the battle at the last moment, wrenched the war axe from Balgruuf’s hand.

“Do you yield?” the general growled.

Struggling for breath, the jarl paused, glancing over at the wounded Irileth. “Yes. I – I surrender.”

As if to set his admission of defeat in stone, the main doors of Dragonsreach banged shut. Five heads turned in unison to see Vignar Grey-Mane ascending the steps, a cluster of Stormcloaks flanking him.

Baalgruf scowled, the appearance of his political rival compelling him to stand and confront him. “Your family was noticeably absent from the walls, Grey-Mane. Now I know why. Wouldn’t a dagger in the back have sufficed?”

“You think this is personal?” the clan patriarch questioned sternly, coming to a stop in front of the jarl. “The Empire has no place in Skyrim... not anymore. And _you?_ You have no place in Whiterun anymore!”

“A convenient position to hold now. But mark my words, old man: in the days to come, Ulfric will spread his rebellion thin – and what then?” Balgruuf shot back bitingly. “We need the Empire, as much as it needs us. We Nords are the Empire! Our blood built it! Our blood sustains it! You of all people should know that.”

“If this was my Empire, I’d be able to worship whoever I damned well pleased,” Vignar retorted. “You wish to see an Empire without Talos? Without its soul? We should be fighting those witch-elves, _not_ bending knee to them. The Emperor was nothing more than a puppet of the Thalmor. Skyrim needs a High King who will fight for her – and Whiterun needs a jarl that will do the same.” He glared at the other meaningfully.

“Tell me, Vignar: was all this worth it?” Balgruuf demanded furiously. “How many of those corpses lining our streets wear the faces of men who once called you friend? What about their families?”

“Enough! Both of you!” Galmar thundered, stepping between the two quarreling men. “There is a burning city out there that needs a government!”

“You’re right,” the clan patriarch admitted. “Come, Galmar: let us go and restore order.” He turned away, hobbling down the stairs towards the doors; the Stormcloaks that had accompanied him in took hold of Balgruuf and the injured Irileth.

“This isn’t over. You hear me, you old fool! This isn’t over!” the Jarl of Whiterun shouted after Vignar in a last act of defiance. “And you –” he shot a murderous look at Kajsa “– a Stormcloak. You are no better than the Grey-Mane usurper or the Bear himself, Dragonborn.”

“Enough of your slander,” the general snarled, before addressing the Stormcloaks. “Take them both to the prisons, men.”

Gripping Balgruuf by the forearms, some of the soldiers began to drag him off. A few others hoisted an unconscious Irileth and followed them.

Shaking his head, Galmar turned back to the Dragonborn and Ralof. “Good work today, the both of you. Ralof, take some men and sweep Dragonsreach for anyone else that needs arresting. Red-Blade, get some rest and then get over to Windhelm. Tell Ulfric of our victory here.”

“Yes, sir,” the Nord man said dutifully.

Kajsa nodded wordlessly, predator’s talons clenching around her heart.


	20. Last Seed, Last Hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Hometown Glory," Adele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Rzo-vMWJOk)

Legs crossed, arms draped over her knees, Kajsa sat on a rocky outcropping jutting out of the Skyforge. A light rain fell, dampening her hair and her dirty Stormcloak cuirass, washing away the soot from her face. She was isolated from the earlier destruction, and that was how she wanted to be.

Far-away silhouettes of the buildings of Whiterun were all that was visible in the dying light and through the damp, misty air, just below her, light shone through the windows of Jorrvaskr. She had been sitting up by the deserted Skyforge for hours, but she had not yet visited the mead hall. Whether her reluctance was due to fear or regret or a desire to be left alone, she did not know. Perhaps it was all three.

Whatever it was, she didn’t want to face the Companions – not now. She could almost imagine their reactions to seeing her again: Aela’s polite, yet frigid demeanor, Athis leaving almost as soon as she stepped inside, Njada’s customary scowl intensifying, Ria’s wide-eyed, pleading expression, Torvar drunkenly blurting out something that he shouldn’t. Farkas wouldn’t know what to make of the whole thing, but he wouldn’t greet her with his usual good cheer.

Vilkas would be the worst. Despite the fact that they were shield-siblings, with complimentary ruthlessly effective fighting styles and personalities to match, his harshest critiscm always seemed to be aimed at her. He’d openly begrudged her becoming Harbinger, questioning whether she could perform the required duties, citing her ties to other, less savory organizations. If she were to walk into Jorrvaskr, she feared a repeat of the night Kodlak died: a vicious screaming match that had ended in them being dragged away from each other after a violent brawl.

But if ever there was a time she deserved the scorn of the Companions, it was now.

The Dragonborn squeezed her eyes shut, but a stubborn tear streaked down her scarred cheek. Seeing Whiterun like this – the proud, yet humble city that was the heart of Skyrim reduced to nothing more than charred, broken husks of houses and trampled farmland – hurt her in ways that she could not explain. She hadn’t gotten the urge to cry in a long time, but as soon as she’d escaped to the Skyforge, Kajsa had wanted to crumple where she stood and weep until her eyes were dry and her throat was raw with her sobbing.

_No matter where I go or where I stay, Whiterun is still my home. My first real home after – after I returned._

It didn’t seem like it had been a year since she’d stepped through the gates of Whiterun; the Dragonborn still remembered every detail like it had only been yesterday. Lost inside her memories, she recalled the warm furs over the tattered Stormcloak uniform ( _much like this one,_ she thought wryly) that hung off her frame, the scabbing cuts on her face and her other wounds that had yet to heal, the looted steel greatsword that weighed so heavily on her back, even the knitted wool socks that Gerdur had given her to wear so that her feet wouldn’t chafe inside her patched-up boots. Except for her father’s battered Amulet of Talos, all of her belongings then had been recently acquired during her perilous escape from Helgen.

She’d been to Whiterun before then, of course; she and her parents had lived there briefly when she was only a child. But after the terror of Helgen, the modest city had provided a sort of refuge for her. Kajsa had grown attached to the clean, airy layout of its streets, the coziness of its houses and shops, the charity of its people. And once she became Thane of the hold and purchased Breezehome, Whiterun became her first permanent home in seven years. True, she came and went on jobs for the Thieves Guild, but she always returned to the city at some point or other – and when she joined the Companions, the Dragonborn left her other residences in Markarth and Solitude and solely operated out of Whiterun.

She’d talked to Vignar after the fighting had ceased and he’d been officially appointed Jarl of Whiterun, and he’d been more than willing to restore her thanehood and grant her property once more. While she was well-acquainted with Clan Grey-Mane and had no doubt that its patriarch would be a good jarl, Kajsa still felt a twinge of guilt over betraying Balgruuf’s trust. He may have lost his temper with her, ordered her death, and grievously insulted her, but they’d been friends once in a time that was lost to her now. His punitive actions may have forced her hand, but she couldn’t shake off regret of what might have been.

 _What chance had you?_ a voice within her asked, sharp with criticism. _Did you honestly think that Whiterun might have beaten back against the brunt of the Stormcloak army if the Dragonborn turned traitor? Far more likely that you would have lost and then thrown in the Dragonsreach dungeon along with Balgruuf – or brought back to Windhelm in chains for Jarl Ulfric to deal with personally._ Memories of golden eyes piercing through darkness and cold iron against her skin made her shoulders tighten in a shudder.

 _No. I could not have endured that again._ She swallowed. _But is the alternative truly any better?_

She couldn’t join Ralof and Galmar in their celebration down in the Bannered Mare in good conscience. The Dragonborn had heard the suspicious whispers of the soldiers and the guards, the cruel nickname they’d given her – “Ice-Veins,” for her cold heart, as she’d heard one particularly vocal Whiterun guard put it. Like with all of the taunts leveled at her by her adversaries, she pretended not to notice it, but the epithet still cut deeper than any blade.

 _Is my heart truly as harsh as they say it is?_ She stared down at her lap, where her fingers tangled together almost involuntarily. _Or does war make all hearts that way?_

Not for the first time that day, Kajsa cursed Ulfric Stormcloak and the civil war that he’d caused. _If not for him, I wouldn’t be here right now, lamenting my betrayal of Whiterun. If not for him, I wouldn’t be even involved in this war._

 _What loyalty do I even owe to him?_ she thought angrily. _I may want to see Skyrim freed of the Empire and the Dominion, but what, by all the gods and Daedra, made me want to swear an oath of fealty to that man?_

She racked her mind for another, simpler-to-explain reason. Throughout the time that she’d known the jarl, the Dragonborn had been making observations and cataloguing information in her mind, trying to form a better picture of the real man behind the larger-than-life figure. Frustratingly enough, most of her intelligence on him was vague at best.

_Well, what do I know for certain? I know that he’s fervently dedicated to seeing this war through. I know that he believes that only Nords should live in Skyrim. I know that he’s charismatic and calculating, a true politician. I know that he hates the Thalmor, despite his past connections to them._

_And – and I know that he’s attracted to me on some level._

With a man like Ulfric, who could be infuriatingly understated when he chose to be, Kajsa found herself relying on her beastblood-heightened senses in her dealings with him. She hadn’t realized it until more recent days, but he always smelled of want whenever she was around him – more so that night when he’d kissed her for the first time. She’d been close enough to the jarl to detect it then, even through her terror: a base, almost animal lust, fueled by anger and dominance.

_It’s because of the power I possess. If I were a simple soldier in his army, he wouldn’t desire me as much because I would have less to offer him. He’s a conqueror at heart – and he wants to conquer me. Who would dare deny his claim to the throne of Skyrim with the legendary Dragonborn backing him?_

Kajsa would admit that she believed that, in some respects, Ulfric would make a better ruler than Elisif would. _But am I still capable of following the commands of someone with whom I could never have a civil conversation with? Someone who ordered me to betray my home? Someone who would have forced me into his bed if he could?_ She swallowed. _He has power over me now that goes beyond an oath of fealty..._

When Galmar came to her with Ulfric’s axe, she’d wanted to refuse. When Ulfric requested that he speak with her upon her return, she’d wanted to refuse then, too. But then she remembered his bulk forcing her against the wall, his hands around her wrists and his mouth on hers, and she’d taken the axe and agreed to join the assault on Whiterun without fighting his will. Better her obedience than submission again; she’d given up her vulnerability, damn her, and he _would_ use it against her.

 _And now, I have to return to him._ That simple thought terrified her more than anything else. _What will he do when he sees me? Talk, as he promised?_

_Or more?_

“Harbinger?”

Whipping her head around sharply, the Dragonborn glimpsed Vilkas standing at the top of the stairs to the Skyforge. He was out of his armor, dressed in a simple shirt and breeches, and his brow was furrowed in confusion and surprise at seeing her.

Kajsa’s shoulders slumped. _Wonderful. The second-to-last person that I want to see right now._ “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed. “Have you come to condemn me as well?”

“No. Just to talk.” Unconcerned with her vehemence, the Companion walked over and took a seat beside her, dangling his legs over the edge.

“About what?” she snapped.

“Whatever you want to talk about.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I want to be alone right now.” Planting her palms on either side of her, Kajsa pushed herself up into a crouch.

Vilkas caught her arm and tugged her back down again. “There’s something weighing on your mind, Kajsa. What is it?”

“Why should I tell you?”

The Nord man sighed. “You are my shield-sister, and you’ve helped me in the past. Now, I wish to help you.”

She smirked slightly. “If you really wanted to pick me apart, you could have sent Aela or Farkas to do it for you. You’re terrible at having heart-to-heart talks.”

“Aela would claim that whatever you two talked about was not meant for male ears. My brother has a good heart, but he lacks in subtlety.”

Despite her dour mood, the Dragonborn laughed, for what seemed like the first time in an eternity. “I’ve missed you all.”

Vilkas’ mouth twitched into a rare smile. “We’ve missed you as well. Things have been quiet ever since you journeyed to Sovngarde.”

Kajsa nodded absently. “I noticed the barricades around Jorrvaskr were intact. Did any of the Companions fight?”

“Some of the whelps wanted to. The Circle argued against it and favored remaining neutral. If one of us had met you in battle, we would have had to view you as an enemy, not as a shield-sibling.” The Companion glanced over at her, silver-blue eyes searching her for some kind of reaction. “Is _that_ what was troubling you?”

“Among other things,” she said quietly, not really wanting to delve into it any further. “The events of this day... it’s been...” Her voice trailed off. _Well, that makes two of us who are terrible at the heart-to-heart talks._

Vilkas reached over, brushing his fingers against the sleeve of her cuirass to wipe off some ash, his face pensive. “Why did you choose to fight for the Stormcloaks if you knew that it would mean taking this city at some point? You knew Balgruuf would never have sided with Jarl Ulfric; their enmity runs too deep.”

“Why do you want to know?” Kajsa asked, some of her bitterness returning. “So you can figure out why I betrayed Whiterun?”

“To gain a better understanding in general,” the Nord man countered firmly. “You know that I believe that neither side has a strong enough reason to make me fight in their ranks. I only want to know what swayed _you_ ,who were so intent on staying neutral once.”

 _Typical Vilkas. Always wanting to know everything about any given thing._ “I don’t want the Empire or the Aldmeri Dominion to have control over Skyrim. And –” the Dragonborn took a breath to steady herself “– and I want revenge.” _And I need all the power I can get for that._

Now her shield-brother glanced over at her sharply. “For what?”

Her teeth dug into her lip. “Something that happened a long time ago.” _Not that long ago... it’s only been a year..._ “It’s none of your business.”

Vilkas frowned, disapproving. “Revenge is a dangerous trap to fall into. You know the old proverb: ‘before you set out for revenge, be sure to dig two graves.’”

“I don’t care if you throw a whole book of quotations warning against it my way,” Kajsa snapped, rounding on him. “I _have_ to do this. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to forgive myself for that.”

Vilkas scrutinized her, then dropped his gaze from hers. In the silence between them, raindrops fell almost imperceptibly on the stones around them.

Then: “How do you do it, Vilkas?” Drawing her knees up to her chest, the Dragonborn leaned her head on them. “How do you control the beastblood?”

“I don’t know how,” the Companion responded quietly. “I wake up every morning and I am amazed that I made it through another night without heeding the call of the moons and making the Change. Abstaining is not quite as easy as it sounds, but it’s better than giving into the temptation.”

“Like I do,” she finished wryly.

“You’re having trouble controlling our curse.”

Kajsa nodded, not even bothering to correct him. “I – I never used to. But after I returned from Sovngarde... the urges grew much stronger. Like my body’s trying to purge them from me.” She swallowed. “If I deny them... it affects my emotions. One minute, I feel ready to kill – just full of _power_ and the thrill of the chase. And then the next, I feel as defenseless as those I hunt. And if I become angry...”

“You let it loose. Like what happened with the guards. Yes, I know that was you,” he said dryly before she could retort. “The reports of a ‘monstrous wolf’ coupled with your new status as an outlaw in the hold were too much to be mere coincidence.”

“Perhaps. And they weren’t.”

“This is hardly a laughing matter,” Vilkas admonished. “If this is as serious as you say it is, action must be taken immediately.”

“I never said this was a joke!” the Dragonborn hissed. “If it was, I wouldn’t be coming to you for help!”

“Fair enough,” the Nord man conceded. “But I’m not sure if abstinence from the Change can help you. If aspects of the wolf are creeping into your actions...”

“It means I’m going feral, doesn’t it?” Kajsa asked quietly. She recalled the caged werewolves she’d seen while infiltrating Silver Hand hideouts – completely lost to the beastblood, unable to Change or to distinguish friend from foe – and a chill ran down her spine. _To think that the line between woman and beast is so thin..._

Vilkas nodded grimly.

“Then I’ll have to cure myself,” the Dragonborn concluded.

“Proceed with caution,” her shield-brother warned. “I have no way of knowing how being purged of the beastblood will affect you. As far as I know, the effects on a living person have never been documented before.”

“I’ll bear it.” _I always do._

Vilkas’ lip curled as he shook his head. “Your lack of concern for your well-being is disturbing.”

“Whatever the consequences, it’ll be better than living in fear of myself.” She contemplated him for a moment. “Why have you never tried to cure yourself? You only had to ask me for one of the witches’ heads, and I would have given it to you.”

The Companion sighed. “I may loathe the beastblood, but it’s a part of me now. And as long as that is the case, I have to help Farkas control the wolf within him. If I were to cure myself, I’d be abandoning my brother.”

“You’re lucky to have real siblings.”

“Sometimes, they’re more trouble than they’re worth,” Vilkas commented with a trace of black humor. “But he and the Companions are all the family I know.”

“And there are worse families to have.” Kajsa stood up, making to leave.

Following suit, the Nord man caught her by the shoulder. “Come down to Jorrvaskr for dinner. You’ve come to Whiterun since leaving for Sovngarde, but we haven’t seen you in weeks.”

The Dragonborn froze at the invitation, her imagined encounter with the Companions from earlier flashing through her mind. “Thank you, but –”

Vilkas sighed irritably. “What’s done is done, Kajsa. I think you’ll find more of your shield-siblings are concerned about _you_ than the politics of Skyrim. Besides,” he added coolly, with a gleam in his eyes, “the Harbinger _I_ know doesn’t care about what people think of her.”

She punched him in the arm, but a smile crept onto her face as her shield-brother led her down the Skyforge steps and into the warmth of the mead hall. _I can forget my troubles... for tonight, at least._


	21. Revelation and Resolution

Raising his bowed head, Ulfric rested his chin on his fists and stared meditatively at the statue before him. It depicted Talos: both hands over his sword hilt, gazing down at the writhing lizard-worm under his feet with a detached, yet stern solemnity. The lanterns at the base of the shrine and flickering candles that lined the walls of the Temple of Talos served as its only illumination.

Ever since the war began, the jarl found himself coming to the temple more often. Sitting in the front pew, he quietly prayed for strength and courage before forsaking the only truly peaceful place known to him for the clamor and pressure of the outside world. Tonight had been a rougher night than most; it was nearly midnight, and despite his exhaustion, Ulfric hadn’t slept at all.

Sighing, the jarl absently drew the torn piece of parchment from the pocket of his robes, smoothed out the creases again, and reread the letter for what seemed to be the tenth time since receiving it:

> _Jarl Ulfric,_
> 
> _Whiterun Hold has been captured. Vignar Grey-Mane is the jarl now._
> 
> _I can’t return now. There’s something I have to do first. But I will be back. We have much to discuss._
> 
> _Kajsa Red-Blade_

The unusually terse message stirred up a storm of emotions within him: relief upon hearing from her, satisfaction at the news of Whiterun, anger and suspicion from everything else. What task could possibly be more important than returning to Windhelm and giving him this momentous news in person?

But as the days dragged on, no more word came from her. As soon as Galmar walked through the doors of the Palace of the Kings, the jarl had asked him if he’d heard anything. His housecarl expressed surprise and incredulity at the question, stating that he’d ordered her to ride to Windhelm the morning after the battle to deliver the news of Whiterun’s fall.

“Prepare yourself for the worst,” the general had advised him gruffly upon reading the note. “Chances are she’s either dead or has deserted.”

Ulfric had no desire to dwell on either of those possibilities. The Dragonborn seemed to have an uncanny knack for avoiding death, no matter how severe the danger. But desertion? He didn’t want to believe it, but the doubt lingered in the back of his mind and plagued him at every turn.

 _If I pushed her too far, if my actions were responsible for driving away the greatest asset to the war effort –_ He shook his head, as if to clear it of his treacherous thoughts. _No. If she is gone for good, that is her own foolish doing, not mine._

_Or perhaps we are both the fools._

His calm now replaced by irritation, the jarl tucked the Dragonborn’s letter into the pocket of his robes once more and stood. Slipping down the side aisle and reaching the door, he pushed it open, exited the Temple of Talos – and bumped into a slight, hooded figure with a knapsack slung over her back.

Ulfric’s first reaction was to apologize and hold the door open for the prospective worshipper, but the words died on his lips when he caught a glimpse of what little of her face he could see from under the shadow of her hood: a mouth with a slightly larger lower lip and three thin scars running past them.

“Kajsa?” Behind him, he let the temple door fall shut with a wind-muffled click.

“Jarl Ulfric?” She stopped in her tracks, shocked.

His initial relief upon hearing her voice subsided into near-anger. Gripping her shoulders firmly, the jarl gave her a sudden shake. “Where have you been, Red-Blade?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Prying his hands off her, the Dragonborn stalked off in the direction of the Palace of the Kings, now cold and collected. “Besides, my personal life is none of your business.”

Catching up to her, Ulfric seized Kajsa by the arm, jerking her back to him. “I believe it _is_ my business when you vanish for over three days with almost no explanation! Where were you and what were you doing?”

The Dragonborn turned to face him, shaking her arm free of his grasp. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” he asked, leveling his voice to try and keep himself under control.

“Because it’s just too damn hard to explain,” she said flatly. “And I’m not sure if I can.”

“Can you at least try?” he asked, black humor creeping into his words.

Kajsa’s upper lip curled. “Is that a command, _my jarl_?”

“Think of it as a request, if it helps.”

“Why would _you_ want to know anything about me?” She threw her retort as if it was a dagger, but the dark eyes underneath her hood were less sharp.

“Is merely wanting not enough?”

Her jaw tightened. “No.”

“Then what do you want from me?” he demanded.

She lowered her gaze. “I can’t tell you that.” Her voice was unexpectedly quiet, almost pained.

“You do not trust me.”

The Dragonborn’s eyes snapped back to him, now hard as steel. “You say that as if I did not have reason to.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but then he remembered how her body had stiffened against him, how her panicked breath heated his lips, how her nails had dug into his chest as she pushed him away. Her eyes had been full of madness then, and it was not a sight he could easily forget.

Despite their months of opposition, of quarrels, of cat-and-mouse games, they’d grown closer than he’d thought – and in a second, he’d laid those months to waste.

_But she trusts enough for a second kiss..._

“No,” the jarl finally said. “You have your reasons, just as I have mine.”

Kajsa scrutinized him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then: “And you just want to talk?”

“Just talk.” _Even though nothing ever seems to be that way._

Slowly, near-imperceptibly, she nodded. “But not here.”

* * *

Using what felt like a wall to support himself as he cautiously ascended a steep, slightly uneven stairway, Ulfric squinted into the darkness around him. “Why have you brought me _here_ , of all places?”

There came a small _pop_ from behind him as Kajsa summoned a ball of magelight and tossed it up towards the ceiling. Brushing past him, she continued up the stairs and past the landing. “We can talk here without being overheard.”

“In the old Aretino residence?” Following her, the jarl emerged into a large, square central room that had seen better days. Some of the floorboards had been torn up and cobwebs clung to the exposed wood beams of the ceiling. Dust covered the furniture and sundry pots and plates were strewn about in a haphazard manner. The whole place smelled musty, with another, sharper undertone that he couldn’t place.

“Before you say anything, it’s not cursed.” Squatting by the empty, cold hearth, the Dragonborn gathered up some wood from the slapdash pile nearby and shoved it in. “It’s only an empty house with a dark history.”

“I have heard the rumors.” Ulfric crossed to the single bed shoved up against the far wall and seated himself. “About a year ago, the guards were whispering that the Aretino boy had performed the Black Sacrament.”

“For once, the guards got something right.” She conjured flames over one palm and directed them towards the fireplace in one smooth motion. The dry wood caught alight almost instantly. “Fortunately, Aventus had the decency to clean up his mess before heading back to Honorhall.”

“You seem to be making yourself at home,” he commented. “Are you thinking of moving in?”

Kajsa shook her head as she stood up, warming her hands by the crackling fire. “Hardly. It’s a nice enough house, but it’s much too small for my liking.”

“If you are looking to purchase property in Windhelm, you are not buying the Palace of the Kings from me,” the jarl warned her dryly. “Though I have no doubt that if there was a price attached, you could probably match it.”

Surprisingly, the Dragonborn laughed, shrugging off her black hooded robe to reveal a well-worn, long-sleeved tunic with leggings and leather boots. “Of course I could. I’m still the Guildmaster; I could have all the septims in Skyrim if I wanted them.”

Ulfric almost smiled, but then decided not to test whether she was bragging or stating fact.

Draping the garment over the back of a rickety chair near the fireplace and slinging her knapsack to the floor beside it, Kajsa turned the chair to face him and sat down in it, her face growing serious again. “Go on, then. Ask your questions.”

The jarl decided to start with an innocuous question. “How did you know to look for me at the Temple of Talos?”

“I didn’t. I was headed there anyway.”

“To pray?” he asked incredulously. _I thought she did not set much store by the Nine._

“I’m not lying to you. Although,” she admitted, looking down at her hands, curled in her lap, “I wasn’t expecting to see you there.”

“I had trouble sleeping and I decided to step out,” he said curtly, switching the topic. “Why did you not follow Galmar’s orders and return to Windhelm?”

“Something more urgent came up. I had to take care of it as soon as possible.”

“And what might that have been?” The jarl leaned over his knees, waiting expectantly for her response.

The Dragonborn slowly raised her head, dark eyes intently grave. “Before I continue, let me make it very clear that you’re not to tell _anyone_ of what I am about to say.”

Ulfric hesitated, but decided to abide by her rules. _What is one more secret between us?_ “I swear by the might of Talos that I will not speak of this to another.”

Nodding in approval, Kajsa settled back in her chair, resting her elbows on the armrests. It suddenly struck the jarl that she looked unusually tired, haggard even. _What has happened to her?_

“I needed to cure myself,” she confessed quietly.

“Of what?”

Averting her eyes from his, the Dragonborn bit her lower lip again, clearly uncertain about whether to continue or not.

“You said you would be honest with me, Red-Blade,” Ulfric reminded her, an edge to his voice. “What were you curing yourself of?”

Kajsa swallowed. “The beastblood. I – I _was_ a werewolf.”

Shocked into silence, the jarl stared at her incredulously, unsure of how to react. As a boy, he’d been frightened with stories of men who became wolves with the cycle of the moons, true... but he never thought there was any truth in the tales. _Dragons, draugr, and now, werewolves. I should know better by now._

He found his voice again and it rose in the still. “By the Gods, why did you not tell me?”

“If you were me, would _you_ have everyone know that you possessed the beastblood?” the Dragonborn retorted. “Besides, it wasn’t my secret to share. If I’d told you, I would have endangered others.”

Ulfric frowned. “There are more of you?”

“Yes.” She didn’t volunteer any additional information.

He decided to ask a different question. “For how long?”

“Not long. Only about three or four months at the most.”

“If you do not mind my asking... how did it happen?”

Kajsa crossed her arms over her chest. “I _do_ mind you asking that. But I accepted the gift freely.”

 _Why would anyone want to become a – a monster?_ The jarl changed the subject again. “Then why cure yourself now?”

The Dragonborn sighed, picking at a loose thread of her tunic. “I couldn’t control the beastblood. I used to be able to, but –” she shrugged sharply, almost angrily “– not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Ever since I returned from Sovngarde, it was harder for me to restrain myself. No amount of hunting or feeding could satiate the beast.”

Something suddenly clicked in his mind. “Was that how you slew Galmar’s ice wraith?”

A smile flitted across Kajsa’s lips. “You’re more observant than I thought.”

“And the ‘monstrous wolf’ that Balgruuf’s messenger was babbling about?” Ulfric pressed. “That was you as well, was it not?”

Her smile twisted into a grimace, and the Dragonborn nodded. “I made the Change intentionally... but the beast had other ideas than simply fleeing.” She sighed. “It became clear to me afterwards that perhaps it was time I let go of that blessing.”

“A ‘blessing?’” the jarl echoed in disbelief. “A blessing that caused you to lose control over your actions and slaughter your own kind in cold blood?”

“You don’t understand what it was like before my restraint started slipping.” Kajsa’s eyes suddenly seemed very far away, almost dreamy. “Every time I hunted as a wolf deep in the forests, every time I brought down my prey and feasted on my kill, every time I howled in the night and let it be known that I was on the prowl... it was a thrill like none other. There was power in it, and freedom, too.”

Ulfric remained unconvinced. “Being a werewolf sounds more like a curse to me than anything else.”

“Perhaps. But this particular strain of lycanthropy did, in fact, originate with a curse – which is probably the only reason it could be cured.” She smiled grimly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be speaking to you now.”

“How exactly does one cure the beastblood?”

The Dragonborn paused for a moment before replying. “It’s complicated and dangerous.”

“And you cannot tell me,” the jarl finished, irritated. “Why can you not reveal any of this?”

“Because two people that I know have died because of this blessing – or curse – becoming known.” Her expression was almost pleading. “Someday, I might tell you more, but now is not that time.”

Ulfric swallowed his anger. “Then at least answer my remaining questions truthfully.” He stood up, towering over the seated young woman. “Do you not trust me because of what I ordered at Whiterun – or for something else?”

Her gaze remained steady, but now accusing. “Both.”

“Then what would I need to do to regain your trust and your loyalty?” _Assuming I had either of those to begin with..._

Kajsa’s lips twisted into a cold smile. “Thanks to that oath you and Galmar made me swear, you have my loyalty until the end of this war. Afterwards will be a different story, but until then, I would appreciate _not_ being treated as a living weapon or a prospective notch on your bedpost.”

It took all the jarl had to remain composed in the wake of her acerbic tone. “I did not anticipate your reaction to be so hostile.”

“What did you expect?” she demanded. “That I’d swoon into your arms and let you carry me to bed?” She all but spat out the last word.

Ulfric almost laughed, but he covered it with a cough. “Not precisely. You are a different kind of woman than what I am used to.”

“And now you know that to be true.” Her words were quiet and bitter.

The jarl examined her for a moment. In the flickering firelight, the sharp plains of her face were softened and her hair seemed tinged with flame. In such light, it was not so hard to believe that the swaggering warrior in the ebony armor and the terrified woman with empty, dark eyes were the same person.

“Was there another?” The question fled before he could capture it. _Someone else who hurt you in this way?_

The Dragonborn’s jaw stiffened. “That is none of your business,” she snarled through gritted teeth.

 _So there_ was _someone._ “Then why did you react the way you did?”

Kajsa’s eyes left his own. “I – I am not accustomed to touch,” she said tightly. “You startled me. That’s all.”

Ulfric frowned doubtfully, but then he remembered their last kiss: their bodies apart, only their mouths touching. _Remove your hand,_ she’d whispered, and only then had she leaned in. All on _her_ terms, not his.

The Dragonborn sighed in the silence, brushing some loose strands of hair away from her face. “If that’s the extent of your questions–” Standing up, she snatched up her robe from the back of her chair and started pulling it on.

The jarl bent down to fetch her knapsack, but did not hand it to her. “What would you do if I were to kiss you again?”

Kajsa stiffened, then snatched her satchel from him, hefting it onto her back decisively. “In what manner?”

“In a manner that would please you.”

Her lips twisted again, with even less humor than before. “What makes you think that you can – _please_ me?”

“What makes you so certain I cannot?”

The Dragonborn did not respond.

“You must have realized by now how I feel about you,” Ulfric pressed. “Are you not willing to give me a chance to prove that?”

“I know how you feel about me.” Her tone was flat, almost angry, but her eyes were uncertain.

“Then you know I want you.”

His words hung in the air, echoing in the emptiness and the dust. The jarl watched her carefully, searching for some kind – _any_ kind – of reaction.

Finally, Kajsa looked him directly in the eye. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”

“And what of you? Do you feel the same way?”

She bit her lip, and for one petrifying moment, Ulfric feared her answer. _Do not lie to me. Especially not now._

Then: “I – it’s hard to say. Gods know I’ve thought about this enough, but – but I still don’t know.” Her emotions were laid bare for him to see; the bewilderment was evident in her dark eyes. “I – I know I feel _something_ , but I don’t know what it is.”

“Do you feel it now?” He raised his hand, fingertips catching underneath her chin.

Eyes widening for an instant, the Dragonborn inhaled sharply.

Sensing his mistake, the jarl moved his hand, palm cradled under her jaw with his fingers fanned over her scarred cheek, cupping the cool, uneven skin. Kajsa exhaled shakily, eyes closing in what he could have sworn was relief.

Emboldened, Ulfric leaned in and their mouths met.

The first time, when he’d kissed her, it was forceful and driven by anger. The second time, when she’d kissed him, it was simple in its sadness. This third time, it was a silent accord: cautious, but not emotionless – judging from how her breath quaked and his heart shook in his chest, far from it.

His free hand found her waist, stroking the curve of it as it flared out into her hip. Under his lips, the Dragonborn let out a soft sound – of distress, he thought, until her hand closed over his, fingers winding around his palm. Her other hand tangled in the bear-fur trim of his robe, but their bodies remained apart, the space between them cold.

Shifting his hand from her waist to the small of her back, the jarl pressed against her flesh: not hard enough to push her into his arms, but just enough to give her warning. She tensed for a moment, then with a half-step more, she was pressed against him, her fingers trailing through the fur trim as her arm wound around his shoulder.

Ulfric brought his arm around her fully, his hand settling on her waist again as he kissed her again, his mouth brushing from her lips to her smooth cheek. “Does that please you?”

Kajsa hesitated, unmoving in his arms. Then: “Yes.” Even as close as he was, her admission was still hard to hear. “It – it does.”

“You do not sound pleased.” He drew his head back, his gaze meeting hers.

The Dragonborn sighed quietly. “I know.” She stepped away, the warmth of her body leaving his. “I – I have a lot to think about.”

He nodded, suddenly feeling more tired than he had in a long time. “Let us return to the Palace of the Kings, then.” The jarl gestured towards the landing in the next room over. “Perhaps we can both get the rest we need.”

“I intend to sleep alone,” she said, an edge to her voice.

“As did I.” He offered her his arm. “But surely you would not deny an escort.”

After a moment, Kajsa curled her hand around his forearm. “Lead on then.” She glanced up at him expectantly, but there was still some lingering wariness in her eyes.

Ulfric smiled slightly. “Of course, Dragonborn.” _She will need convincing yet... but this is a start._


	22. Risky Business

_They were coming for her._

_She sprinted through the pine forest, having long since abandoned the road for a less straightforward route: vaulting over boulders, splashing through shallow streams to throw off the hounds, dodging around trees. Branches whipped against her face, and brambles tore at her muddy, travel-worn clothes, but she ignored their sting and raced on. Her rucksack, cloak, and bow lay somewhere behind her, hurriedly torn off and flung in every which direction in an effort to lighten her load, but the weight of her twin daggers still bounced against her hips._

_Yes, she would have to use what weapons she had at some point. She could hear them behind her, crashing through the underbrush like she had only a few seconds ago with their hounds baying as they tried to pick up her scent, and she knew they were close._

_A voice like a blade shearing through silk rose in the night, furious and commanding. “Spread out, you fools! She can’t have gotten far!”_

_Her heart, already pounding from her frantic running, skipped a beat in fear, and her labored breathing stuck in her throat._ No – no, _no_ – I thought _he_ was –

_Her panicked thoughts were abruptly cut off as a bolt of chain lightning hit her squarely in the back, the sheer force of the blast knocking her to the forest floor. Her head cracked against something, the sharpness of the impact cutting her scream of pain short, and the sudden warmth and stickiness of blood spread over her forehead. Numb, unable to move, she felt a slender, yet vise-like hand grip her shoulder and turn her body over none too gently._

_The last things she sensed before blacking out were a pair of unearthly golden eyes glinting in the darkness and an amused, yet chilling whisper: “We meet again, Katarina...”_

Kajsa woke suddenly and violently, a scream rising in her throat only to be stifled in her pillow. Her fingers dug into the fabric of the pillowcase, and her shoulders heaved as she propped up her upper body on her elbows and gasped for breath, head still hanging down. Her skull throbbed in the beginnings of a headache, seemingly too heavy for her neck to lift.

The realization that lacking the beastblood that keep her from restful sleep would only aid Vaermina in her continued torture only brought a sickened feeling to her stomach. Collapsing back on her bed, she turned over on her side and squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to steady her breathing. _A nightmare. Not real._

 _Not real_ now.

A persistent glow penetrated her eyelids and she reluctantly opened her eyes again to see faint beams of light shine from the stone slits that passed for windows in the Palace of the Kings.

 _How long did I sleep?_ Frowning tiredly, the Dragonborn sat up slowly, leaning over her knees and craning her head sideways to try and judge the time of day. _Six hours? Seven?_

Her eyes fell on a platter of food resting on the nightstand. Blinking in surprise, Kajsa threw the blankets back and swung her legs over the side of the bed; the frigid air brought goosebumps to her bare skin. She reached for the platter and balanced it on her lap, ignoring the chill of the cold silver seeping through the hem of her loose shirt and into her thighs in favor of examining what it held.

A small bottle of Nord mead. A crisp-looking apple. A wedge of yellow cheese. A small loaf of bread that looked to be still a little warm. And lastly, a folded note.

Placing the tray back on the nightstand, the Dragonborn grabbed the apple and, after a moment of hesitation, the note. Taking a bite of the fruit, relishing the crisp crunch of its flesh, she unfolded the parchment and read it:

> _Good morning,_
> 
> _You will probably still be sleeping by the time Jorleif brings up this tray, but I have told him not to wake you. You and I both know that sound sleep is hard to come by these days._
> 
> _Get something to eat and then come down to the war room. Galmar and I will be waiting for you. We need to discuss our next move._
> 
> _Ulfric_

Swallowing her mouthful of apple, Kajsa stared blankly at the note for a few minutes before refolding it and sliding it back on the tray. _So he’s already trying to regain my trust._

Last night had been a mistake. His prying questions and his pitiful attempts at sincerity had gotten to her, and she’d given in. She’d opened up to him, told him most of the truth, and for what? More honeyed words and a kiss. No matter how _good_ that kiss had felt – how warm his lips were, how solid and strong his body was, how his hand had fit into the curve of her waist – she wouldn’t let herself forget what kind of man was kissing her: a coldly calculating politician whose lies came as easily as breathing.

 _Is seduction the means to his ends? The conversations, the kisses, the promises... exactly what part do I play in his machinations?_ This was going further than simply “regaining her trust,” and yet, she wasn’t sure how far it would extend. _Probably only to his bed,_ she thought dryly, _and nothing more._

The Dragonborn stared at the half-eaten apple as she turned it over in her hands. This could be an opportunity, if she played this little game of theirs correctly. He would continue trying to win back her trust, all the while believing that she was gaining faith in him, and she would let him. Maybe it led to intimacy, maybe not, but _that_ was unlikely; as much as it made her skin crawl to think of it, a man as hungry for power and status as Ulfric would be thirsting to conquer someone like her, if only to prove his superiority. And then, once the war was won... he’d be sufficiently enthralled ( _and in my debt,_ she thought with a derisive snort) to grant whatever request she had.

 _But if some part of Ulfric_ is _honest in his intentions... would it really be so bad to be honest as well? No more lies, no more deceptions: just the possibility of_ something _._

“I hope that you can confide in me one day, Kajsa,” the jarl had said as they’d parted ways at her bedroom door last night. “You have only to speak, and I will listen.”

For a moment of fancy, the Dragonborn thought about taking him up on his offer and telling him everything: confronting him with her suspicions, admitting her fears, divulging the details of her nightmares that made her afraid to sleep –

 _No._ Mouth set in a firm line, she dropped the half-eaten apple back on the tray and reached for her discarded clothing that lay crumpled on the floor. _Not that. Never that._

* * *

“You say that troops have been instituted in Fort Greymoor?”

“Aye,” Galmar confirmed. “Had to clear out the bandits that’d kept those milk-drinking Imperials from taking the fort, but that was just part of the fun.”

“And the town guards?”

“Whiterun’s already taken care of. Before I left, I sent out a few units to ensure that the other hold towns are under our control.”

Ulfric smiled. “Then Whiterun Hold is ours.” With a slight flourish, he replaced the double red flags over the map icon of the city with double blue flags. “Excellent.”

His housecarl cleared his throat indelicately. “There’s still one issue: Red-Blade.”

The jarl looked up, his expression cool. “What about Kajsa?”

“What about her?” Galmar repeated incredulously. “Talos, what is there _not_ about her? As if attempting to side with Balgruuf against us wasn’t enough, she’s deserted rather than face the consequences of her treachery!”

“She has not,” Ulfric countered firmly. “Kajsa returned to Windhelm late last night, and she will be joining this meeting shortly.”

His housecarl peered at him suspiciously. “So she gets away with attempted treason?” he growled. “Just like that?”

The jarl sighed. “Did she fight for the Stormcloaks at Whiterun or did she not?”

“She did, but –”

“Then Kajsa has adequately redeemed herself,” Ulfric said, cutting him off. “Rest assured, Galmar, she will not attempt to betray us again.”

“And how are _you_ so sure about that?” Galmar scoffed.

 _Because this would not have happened had I not overstepped my boundaries._ “She gave me her word, and I will believe it until she gives me reason to doubt her,” he finally said. “Besides, even you cannot deny it would serve the cause well to keep the Dragonborn on our side.”

“Maybe, but I still think you’re making a huge fucking mistake,” the other muttered. “Just because Red-Blade’s your new favorite doesn’t mean you throw discipline out the window for her.”

The jarl was about to retort, but a slight squeak of hinges from the door to the upstairs floor heralded the arrival of Kajsa. She stepped through the doorway, leaning back against the door to close it. The jarl looked up from the map to see her standing there: clad in the same clothes she’d been wearing last night, albeit a bit more rumpled, hair messy and eyes dark from sleep.

 _Even when she has just awoken, she is still striking._ He caught her eye and smiled warmly. After a moment, she returned the gesture, albeit a bit more tiredly.

His housecarl was not as charitable. “All caught up on your beauty sleep, Red-Blade? You took your sweet time getting yourself down here.”

Kajsa shrugged, crossing her arms. “For now, anyway. You should really try it sometimes; I’m sure a few hours of ‘beauty sleep’ would work wonders on you.”

“Ha! This ugly mug of mine isn’t going anywhere!”

Ulfric breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that the two of them had progressed from verbal abuse in earnest to casual exchanges of insults. _A sign of camaraderie during wartime._ “Now that we’re all present, this meeting can commence.”

Both the general and the Dragonborn turned to face him, waiting expectantly for the speech certain to come.

Folding his hands behind his back, the jarl began. “Thanks to your efforts, we have successfully taken Whiterun Hold and appointed Vignar Grey-Mane as Jarl. This is a key position that will be critical to hold, as we now have unobstructed access to the rest of the Imperial-controlled holds: Falkreath, Hjaalmarch, the Rift, and most critically, Haafingar.

“Now, our true work begins. We must strive to capture the rest of the holds as quickly as possible, before General Tullius sends for reinforcements from Cyrodiil to retake Whiterun Hold, which he is certain to at some point. After all, our troops outnumber his, and we now have access to more resources to support our army.”

“Which hold will we concentrate on first?” Kajsa asked.

“Falkreath.” Ulfric tapped by the red flag on the map. “The Pale Pass gives Imperial troops direct access to Skyrim. If we can prevent them from taking that route, then Tullius will have no choice but to send his reinforcements by sea: arguably a riskier route than by land. It will take at least a week – more if they run into inclement weather – for any ships to reach Solitude’s port, and that will buy us valuable time.”

“Not to mention that there’s still that issue I was briefing you on earlier,” Galmar said. “We’ve got good men locked up in Fort Neugrad and it’s high time they got back in the fight.” He stared pointedly at the Dragonborn.

“That _does_ sound like my kind of mission,” Kajsa admitted.

“I’ll have my hands full with taking over Falkreath, so I planned to assign it to you anyway,” the general responded. “Ralof and a detachment of troops have been scouting out the area. Last I heard, he was going on about some cave system underneath the lake that led into the prisons.”

“Perfect. The Imperials will never suspect an attack from the inside.”

“This isn’t all about the cloak-and-dagger, Red-Blade,” Galmar warned. “As soon as those prisoners are freed, we’ll be taking over Fort Neugrad.”

The Dragonborn raised an eyebrow. “So you’re planning on attacking Falkreath _and_ Fort Neugrad at the same time? That’s ambitious.”

“With a coordinated attack, there will be no time for the Imperials to recover and effectively defend their positions,” Ulfric explained. “The already small numbers of troops stationed in the hold will be spread out and made weak. On the other hand, we have more than enough troops to pull off an assault such as this.”

“Best of all, if a soldier from, say, Fort Neugrad, should run to Falkreath to raise the alarm – or the other way around – they’ll find that their comrades are rather engaged.” The general grinned savagely. “It’s by no means a fool-proof plan, but it’s pretty damn close.”

“It’s never a ‘good plan’ without some element of risk. That’s where it gets interesting.” Kajsa glanced over at the jarl. “How soon should we move out?”

“As soon as possible,” Galmar answered for him. “We’ll be meeting other reinforcements on the road, and with the additions to our party, it’s bound to get slow after a while.”

The Dragonborn shrugged. “If it’ll give us any advantage, it’s fine by me.”

“Good. Go get into uniform, get your supplies, and meet me out by the stables. We’re leaving immediately.” With that, the general turned around and strode out of the war room.

In the still, the jarl cleared his throat, causing Kajsa to look over at him. Despite her sleeping until nearly noon, she still appeared exhausted.

“Do you think you can handle this mission?” he asked.

“I’ve infiltrated Northwatch Keep and broken out of Cidhna Mine. One poorly guarded military fort will be easy.”

 _There’s her trademark arrogance once again._ “I have confidence in your expertise. All I ask of you is for you to be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” she said simply, approaching his side. “I make sure to judge risk beforehand to prepare myself adequately. That way, I can keep my mind focused on my task and how best to accomplish it.”

“And how has that worked out for you?” Ulfric asked dryly.

Leaning back against the table, supporting herself by pushing the heels of her palms against the edge, the Dragonborn considered his question. “There have been times where I’ve faced unforeseen complications that I didn’t know how to deal with.” She looked away, her eyes darkening. “Fortunately, those have been relatively rare.”

The jarl decided not to press her for any further details. “You have already considered the possibility of a part of the mission going wrong, then?”

“Enough to know that it’ll probably work, even with Galmar’s farfetched plan.” She straightened up, pushing herself away from the table.

He laughed quietly. “Let Galmar do his job and you go do what you do best.”

“Aye.” Something in her gaze softened slightly. Standing on tiptoes and placing a hand on his shoulder, Kajsa tentatively gave him a light kiss on the cheek. It felt like a tiny spark against his skin.

Ulfric smiled at the gesture. _So she is taking it upon herself to initiate the kisses now..._ “Talos be with you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” The ends of her mouth quirked up in a wry smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m putting _my_ trust in you. Have a little faith in me.”


	23. The Past in the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Musical Inspiration:** "Bad Moon Rising" (more the covers by [Mourning Ritual](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNjgfTfQjCQ) and [Rasputina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9KchCouIjI) than the CCR original)

Modest, cramped, and squalid, the New Gnisis Cornerclub was far from being a respectable establishment. Though acknowledged for its superior drinks, the tavern’s location in the heart of the Grey Quarter – as well as the fact that the vast majority of its customers were dark elves – averted many prospective customers. On the other hand, the Cornerclub was far enough off the beaten path to make it an excellent meeting place.

 _Which is what she had in mind, I’m sure,_ Kajsa thought to herself as she closed the splintering wooden door behind her. _Not to mention that she’d remain inconspicuous here..._

Surprisingly, the New Gnisis Cornerclub wasn’t as deserted this evening as it usually was, likely because of the freezing weather outside. Ignoring the suspicious looks from a few of the patrons and the pointed scowl of the bartender, she made her way to a small, circular table in the corner with two bottles of Black-Briar mead resting on top. A tall, slender figure in patched-together Guild leathers sat in one of the chairs, an overlarge hood covering its face.

The Dragonborn settled herself in the other chair, crossing one leg over the other and keeping her hooded black robe on; openly wearing the Stormcloak uniform in this part of Windhelm was generally ill-advised. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening in, but lowered her voice just in case. “How long have you been in the city?”

“A day or two.” Even with the hubbub in the tavern, Karliah’s soft, lilting voice carried just far enough to be heard. “I wasn’t sure when you would return, but I wanted to be prepared just in case you got back to Windhelm earlier.”

“Your letter came at the perfect time. My business in Falkreath proved... shorter than I expected, so I was on the border of the Rift when I received word from you.”

Kajsa did not count the release of prisoners from (and the subsequent sacking of) Fort Neugrad among the most difficult tasks she’d had to carry out in her life. Ralof’s scouting in advance paid off; the cave system under the fort had led her straight through a crumbling wall in one of the prison storerooms. Aside from the rust that had claimed a few of her lock picks, picking the locks on the cell doors and freeing the prisoners also did not prove to be terribly difficult.

 _No... not_ that, _at least..._ _what else I found in Fort Neugrad's dungeons was less easy to deal with..._

However, the whole endeavor – both the rescue and the takeover – was made considerably easier by the fact that most of the Imperials holding the fort were asleep in the crammed barracks scattered throughout Fort Neugrad, oblivious to the Stormcloaks stealthily slipping through the front gates. While Kajsa moved through the fort like a ghost, ensuring with Mehrunes’ Razor that the soldiers she came across never woke again, Ralof and the others charged ahead, eager for an actual battle. Despite her quiet exasperation at their decidedly less subtle approach, the Dragonborn had to admit that it didn’t matter much; either way, Fort Neugrad was as good as theirs.

After ordering Ralof to organize the men and to take inventory of the fort’s resources, the Dragonborn mounted Shadowmere and galloped down the western-leading road to Falkreath. By the time she arrived, the battle had long been over, and Galmar had his hands full with an obstinate Siddgeir, who was desperately trying to cling to his throne through all manner of bribes and wheedling. His threats died on his lips as soon as Kajsa requested the Stormcloak general for permission to disturb the peace by Shouting the former jarl through the wall, and Siddgeir reluctantly allowed himself to be led to the prisons, glowering all the while. After dealing with “that milk-drinking brat,” as he put it, Galmar was greatly pleased to hear the good news about Fort Neugrad.

“Get back to Windhelm and tell Ulfric,” he’d ordered with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “And next time, don’t scoff at my battle strategies.”

The other Nightingale smiled faintly. “Vipir complained at first, but at least he didn’t have far to run.”

Though she returned the gesture at first, the Dragonborn quickly sobered. “Your letter didn’t say much, only said to meet you here as soon as possible.” She leaned over the table, her voice gaining a note of urgency. “Karliah... what’s happened?”

The Dunmer thief was silent for a moment and then she began her story in a quietly hesitant voice. “A little more than a week ago, I went to Markarth to take care of a few lingering jobs. They all went off without a hitch, so I went looking for somewhere to spend the rest of the night. I remembered that when you became Guildmaster, you said that you had repurposed your homes as ‘safe houses,’ and that we were free to stay in any of them if we were taking jobs in the particular cities they were located.”

“So you decided that you’d go to Vlindrel Hall instead of finding an inn,” Kajsa finished.

Karliah nodded. “But when I reached the safe house... something was terribly wrong. The front door was unlocked and ajar, and there were lights inside.”

“Someone – broke into _my_ house?” The other’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. “Who?”

“Thalmor. There were three of them: two soldiers and a Justiciar.” The Nightingale’s violet eyes were grave. “They appeared to be ransacking Vlindrel Hall.”

“What in Oblivion were they doing in Markarth?” Kajsa nearly snarled, but she checked herself and lowered her voice again. “The Reach is Stormcloak territory now; it’d be suicide for any Thalmor to show their face there!”

“They seemed to be looking for something, but I’m not sure what. Even after I’d... _incapacitated_ and attempted to question them, I couldn’t glean much information.”

Despite her stormy mood, the Dragonborn’s lips twitched in a grim smile. “I hope you didn’t leave pieces large enough to be buried.”

“I hid the bodies in a remarkably convenient waterfall by Understone Keep. While they proved unwilling to talk while alive, the contents of their pockets proved quite telling.” Producing a folded piece of parchment from one of the pouches on her belt, the Dunmer slid it across the table. “I found this in the Justiciar’s robes.”

Picking up and unfolding the sole piece of evidence, Kajsa quickly scanned the letter, heart pounding:

> _Justiciar Ondolemar,_
> 
> _You have disappointed me greatly. First, you disgrace your station by fleeing the Reach like a common craven before the Stormcloaks could take over – and now, you deny ever knowing that the Dragonborn lived in Markarth?_
> 
> _Your pitiful excuses weary me. I am greatly tempted to inform your superiors on Alinor of your cowardice and gross ignorance and leave your fate in their hands; however, I understand that there is another task for you._
> 
> _Report to the Embassy Headquarters in Solitude and meet with the Justiciar there. Carry out his will to the letter, and perhaps there will be a chance of redemption for you._
> 
> _By my hand and seal,_
> 
> _First Emissary Elenwen Saururiil  
>  _

The Dragonborn glanced up. _So, Justiciar Ondolemar escaped before the Stormcloaks could get him... but didn’t remain alive for long._ “Did you find any further orders on his body?”

“No. However, I recovered this from him.” Karliah pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from where it had been tucked into her belt, and she placed it on the table.

Peeling away the loose wrappings of the package, Kajsa’s breath suddenly hitched in her throat as she lifted out a thin, elegant steel dagger. _Gods and Daedra – is this –?_

“It clearly was not the Justiciar’s weapon,” the other Nightingale went on. “I don’t know why he was carrying it.”

Still frozen, the Dragonborn didn’t respond as she turned the dagger over in her hands, staring at every facet of it in disbelief: the worn leather on the grip and the fraying ties that bound it together, the knotwork on the crossguard, the still-sharp blade with only a few scratches on it – and the piece of parchment wrapped around it, tied in place with a strip of leather.

Quickly untying the leather, her fingers fumbling, Kajsa tore the note off from the blade and read the four words on it:

_**Come out and play...** _

“It’s a message,” she managed, her voice constricted. “This dagger... it’s a message.” Crumpling the parchment in her hand, she let it drop. _A message for me._

“What would you have the Guild do, Kajsa?” the Dunmer thief asked quietly. “I discussed this with Brynjolf and the others, and though some wanted to act immediately to prevent any further damages, we all agreed that you should make the final decision about what we should do.”

“Don’t do _anything_.” The Dragonborn’s voice came like a whiplash. “Don’t get the Guild involved in this. I appreciate the concern, but it’s none of their business.” _This is my responsibility – mine and mine alone._

“It becomes our business when someone threatens our Guildmaster.”

“I can take care of this myself, Karliah. If I need backup, you and the Guild will be the first ones to hear the call. Until then, lay low.”

Karliah opened her mouth to rebut, but she seemed to realize the futility of it. “I will inform Brynjolf and the others of your decision,” she conceded regretfully.

“Thank you.” Somewhat relieved, Kajsa stood up, pushing in her chair.

“You’re welcome, Guildmaster. Be careful.”

The Dragonborn nodded, her mouth set in a grim line and her eyes hard. Opening the front door with a creak of hinges, she exited the negligible warmth of the New Gnisis Cornerclub and vanished into the night snows outside.

Watching her go, the other Nightingale couldn’t help but wonder if she could have done more to talk Kajsa out of this dangerous course. It was a good thing that their Guildmaster was strong-willed, of course, but at times like these...

 _Whether it goes against orders or not, something should be done before she puts herself in harm’s way._ Karliah reached for her mead and took a sip, but it provided no comfort. _The Guild can’t afford to lose another Guildmaster – and I am weary of losing my friends to treachery._

* * *

Kajsa didn’t realize she was shaking until she had reached the low, crumbling stone steps leading to the walled courtyard of the Palace of the Kings. Letting out a long, shaky breath, she sat down on one of them before her knees could give out. She wanted to hope Karliah hadn’t noticed her distress, but she knew the Dunmer was too observant for that.

The dagger – _no,_ my _dagger,_ she reminded herself – was still clutched in her hand, and she laid it across her lap, running a trembling finger along the flat of the blade. _It’s more than a message. It’s a challenge._

He _doesn’t think I’m capable of withstanding him._ The thought sent anger coursing through her, dissolving her shock, and the Dragonborn gritted her teeth, her fingers clenching around the dagger’s handle. _But he’s wrong. He has to be._

_Wherever he is... I’m going to make him regret ever laying a hand on me._


	24. A Dance of Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been long in coming, I know... I couldn't figure out what I wanted to do with it. I saved more of it than I was expecting, but I also tweaked a few things.

Kajsa frowned up at the grand manor house that lay just a few steps beyond the imposing stone gates, all darkened wood and glinting brass and pointed gables with carved birds’ heads perched above. It hadn’t changed a bit since the first night she’d spent in Windhelm, when she’d been trying to find out exactly what a pickpocketed key unlocked and stumbled across a ghastly sight that she hadn’t bargained for.

_But why in Oblivion am I here in the first place?_

After meeting Karliah at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, the Dragonborn had slowly made her way back to the Palace of the Kings to give the news of Falkreath Hold’s capture to Ulfric. However, as soon as she’d walked through the doors, , Jorleif had rushed over to her and thrust a sealed piece of parchment into her hands: a note from the jarl himself.

> _Kajsa,_
> 
> _Clean yourself up and meet me at Hjerim. I will hear your report on Falkreath there._
> 
> _Ulfric_

And now, here she was, standing in front of the other infamous abandoned house of Windhelm: Hjerim, first the home of Friga Shatter-Shield and then the lair of her killer.

A bitterly cold wind blew down the deserted street, and Kajsa drew her hooded black robe a little tighter around her. She’d changed out of her dirty Stormcloak cuirass while in her room at the Palace of the Kings in favor of her old belted tunic and leggings; while she still had her knapsack slung over her back, most of her weapons were stored in the chest at the foot of her bed. Her lack of armor or armaments only served to make her even more hesitant about going in.

 _Get a hold of yourself,_ she tried to tell herself. _This probably means nothing._ _Besides, you can handle Ulfric Stormcloak, now that you know what –_ who _– he wants._

But as Kajsa strode under the gateway and up to the front door, she couldn’t shake the foreboding thoughts that whispered at the back of her mind.

* * *

A sharp knock took his unfocused gaze from the wooden table laden with food to the molded bronze doors. Standing from his seat and crossing the room to reach the door, Ulfric opened it wide to see Kajsa, swathed in her usual hooded black robe to protect her from the cold, waiting on the outside steps.

She inclined her head slightly. “Jarl Ulfric.” Her tone was cool.

“Dragonborn.” The jarl stepped away from the doorway to allow her through. “Please, come in.”

She obeyed, stepping inside, and he closed the door firmly behind her to shut out the chill wind and the flying snow. Ulfric turned around to see her standing in the center of the great-room, taking in the newly cleaned-up Hjerim.

He had inspected the tidied house for himself only a few hours ago. There were no cobwebs lingering in the corners, no dust blanketing the furniture, no blood and broken glass littering the floor – no sign whatsoever that the Butcher had ever made his lair here. He thought to himself how startling it must have been for her to see a newly swept floor, the chandeliers lit up, and the wooden furniture cleaned and polished instead of the horror that pounced on trespassers before.

The Dragonborn’s dry voice broke the silence. “It’s looking better than when I last saw it.”

Ulfric smiled wryly, taking her robe as she shrugged it off her shoulders and hanging it up on a peg by the door. “Unlike the Aretino boy, you ensured that the Butcher did not have time to clean up his mess.”

“And how did _you_ find time for neatening up Hjerim?” She was wearing the same belted tunic, leggings, and boots that she’d worn the last time he’d seen her, but in the added light from the candles, he could better appreciate how well the clothing flattered her form.

“I did not, but I arranged it so that Jorleif and his brigade of servants would.” Striding to the table, the jarl pulled out one end of the closest bench so she could seat herself, and then took a seat on the bench across from her. “Considering the restricted time window, they have done a superb job.”

Kajsa sat down, resting her elbows on the table and placing her knapsack beside her. “Why the rush? Even considering Jorleif’s fastidiousness and the nature of the mess, I’m sure it couldn’t have taken long to clean up the great-room and the secret chamber. Besides,” she added, snatching up a bottle of mead and ladling herself some of the stew, “it’s not as if the Aretinos’ house was much better when we met there.”

The jarl smiled, following her lead and helping himself to dinner as well. “The truth is that they were cleaning the _whole_ house. Unlike the Aretino residence, Hjerim is no longer abandoned.”

“Someone actually bought the property?” she asked in between mouthfuls of the slice of bread she’d snatched up, intrigued and astonished. “Tell me: who was the courageous buyer?”

“Myself. However, it is not remaining in my possession for long.” He caught her gaze, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I am giving Hjerim to you.”

Kajsa’s eyes widened, and she gaped at him for a moment. “You – you are?” For once, she seemed genuinely surprised.

“Who else would I give it to?” Ulfric said. “I seem to recall you were looking for a house in Windhelm. Besides, you have done a great deal for me and this city – apprehending the Butcher, slaying the attacking dragon, collecting all of those bounties – to say nothing of your service to the Stormcloaks. It is only fitting that I reward you.”

The Dragonborn bit down on her lip, her eyes narrowing slightly.

He felt his smile harden into something more bitter. “This is a gift, Red-Blade. Not a bribe.”

“It’s a very large gift,” she said pointedly.

“Torbjorn and Tova wanted it to be as such.”

Kajsa hesitated, her suspicion turning into confusion. “You spoke with the Shatter-Shields about this?”

“Now that their daughter’s killer has been stopped, they agreed that Hjerim should be yours.” He reached for one of the bottles of mead in the center of the table. “You underestimate your supporters in Windhelm. The Cruel-Seas were also quite vocal that the finest house on Valunstrad should go to the Dragonborn.”

“And what was your input on the matter?” she challenged.

“I agreed with them.” Taking a sip of his mead, the jarl raised his gaze to hers. “The war demands much from Windhelm, and I give all I have to it and to my people... but I keep some things for those most deserving of them.”

After a moment, the Dragonborn finally nodded, though her eyes remained wary. “I appreciate it.”

Ulfric smiled to himself. “I thought you would.” He swallowed a mouthful of stew, feeling the warmth of his meal settle into his stomach. “This dinner is courtesy of my kitchen staff. Unless you hire servants of your own, this may be the last decent meal you enjoy for a while.”

“I’ll survive,” she replied through some half-chewed chunks of meat and carrots. “I’m no Gourmet myself, but my Potage le Magnifique is killer.”

Seeing the knowing glint in her eyes, the jarl decided not to inquire exactly what she meant by that statement and switched to another topic. “What news from Falkreath? I take it that the campaign was successful.”

Kajsa nodded in affirmation, though the gesture seemed a bit tense. “The hold is ours – and it’ll probably stay that way for the duration of the war.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I was going through the papers of the legate stationed at Fort Neugrad when I found this.” Leaning to one side and digging through her knapsack, the Dragonborn drew out a folded piece of parchment and slid it across the table. “Read it.”

Ulfric unfolded it, noting the cracked seal and cheap quality of the parchment, and scanned the contents:

> _Legate Rikke,_
> 
> _As ordered, I have assumed command of Fort Neugrad. To say the situation is bad is putting it mildly; morale is low, and the ongoing chaos in Helgen has left our supply lines dangerously vulnerable. The Pale Pass is all but closed due to avalanches in the mountains. And from what scouts have told me, there are reports of Stormcloaks massing in their camps in Whiterun and Falkreath; either capital could be a target any day now. We need more support or the garrison will not withstand another attack, from bandits or Stormcloaks (though I daresay there is not much of a difference)._
> 
> _Respectfully,_
> 
> _Tribune Dias_

_Excellent,_ he mused. _Tullius will have no choice but to send his reinforcements by sea if he wishes to see them safely to Solitude – and that is not the easiest route to take._ “What is this about ‘ongoing chaos in Helgen’?”

“Bandits,” Kajsa answered shortly. “The Imperials stationed at Fort Neugrad were having problems with raids from a band of marauders that had set up camp at Helgen. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

The jarl nodded in understanding, folding the note again. “I am proud we succeeded in liberating Falkreath from the Empire. In many ways, it is the heart and soul of Skyrim – not to mention its rather strategic position and its abundance of resources.”

Kajsa’s mouth twitched in a wry smile at his last comment. “And a newly reinstated jarl, too.”

“So Galmar did boot that lazy arsehole Siddgeir off the throne. Good, good.” He swallowed another mouthful of stew. _Everything is coming together perfectly._

There were several minutes of silence as they both tucked into their meals. Ulfric occasionally glanced up as he methodically chewed to see the other ravenously devouring her dinner, tearing into the meat broth and the bread as though she had not eaten for days. _Even legends such as her have to eat sometimes._

“I have to say,” the Dragonborn said dryly, breaking the still, “you know _some_ things about treating a woman. A new house, dinner... what’s next? Dancing?”

The jarl almost laughed. _Only she could have delivered a compliment in such a biting manner._ “Only if you wish to. I did not know you were a dancer, though.”

“I’m not. I tried learning back when I was in High Rock, but even the ‘unending patience’ of the noblewoman who took it upon herself to teach me wore thin.” A real, but rueful smile curved her mouth. “The only time I can truly dance is when there’s a blade in my hands.”

“The court dances of Daggerfall _are_ infamously near-impossible to learn,” he agreed. “Have you ever been in a situation where your dancing _has_ been put to the test?”

Kajsa thought for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then: “I would say the Embassy, but the test was less in remembering party etiquette and more in retrieving classified documents – like your dossier.” She gave him a pointed look.

Ulfric smiled tightly. “Ah, yes. A relic of the Great War, and one best left buried.” His pained smile faded. “I meant to thank you for bringing that to me, you know.” _I would not have liked for that to exist, much less remain in Thalmor hands._

“Oh, was _that_ why you arrested me when next I was in Windhelm?” she asked sarcastically. “And I thought you only showed your gratitude in _gifts_ of houses.”

“My gratitude towards your deeds is rivaled only by your eagerness for an argument.” Rising to his feet, the jarl extended his hand. “I am also a forgiving man – where you are concerned.”

The Dragonborn raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Are you serious?”

“I would not dream of mocking you. It could prove fatal some day.”

Now, Kajsa threw her head back and laughed, but it was not a wholly mirthful sound. “Don’t forget that.”

Ulfric took her smaller hand in his own hand, and she stood, stepping around the bench she’d been sitting on. He led her out into the center of the bare great-room floor – _perfect for dancing,_ he realized bemusedly – and released her hand in order to make a slight bow.

The Dragonborn sighed, exasperated. “Please: no Breton court dances.”

“It is merely a show of respect, common to most dances.” The jarl gestured to her to follow; she bobbed her head reluctantly. “Now –” he stepped forward, clasping her hand again “– place your other hand on my shoulder.”

She obeyed with some hesitation, curling her fingers into the edge of his bear-fur collar. Ulfric let his free hand fall into the curve of her waist, settling it just above her hip; he felt her tense a bit at first, but she seemed to relax after a moment. She brought up her eyes up to meet his; her gaze was steady and challenging.

_Again and again, she proves her resolve... but who is she proving it to?_

“Just follow my lead,” he counseled. “It will not be difficult.” _Now it is only a question of the steps..._

Beginning to hum a tune under his breath, the jarl stepped to the left, and Kajsa followed his motions tentatively. He moved back a step, and then forward once, twice, three times. She mimicked it with only a few discrepancies in the beat.

“Not bad for someone who claims to not know much about dancing,” Ulfric commented, beginning the simple sequence again.

“I never said I didn’t know _anything_ about it,” the Dragonborn retorted.

The jarl laughed at her defensive tone. “How about a little variation, then?” Letting his hand fall from her waist, he raised his other arm over her head, bringing her hand up and spinning her around.

Surprised at first, Kajsa let go of him fully and completed the twirl, arms spread wide and feet turning to accommodate the motion. Stepping back with a smile of triumph, she raised her hand, palm out. Ulfric did the same, pressing his palm against hers. Together, they each circled the other, their boots hitting the floor in a firmly defined rhythm.

Catching both of her hands again, the jarl extended his arms, bringing her out and then pulling her back in. Twining both of her arms around his shoulders, the Dragonborn swung all of her weight to one side, spinning both of them around in a graceful spiral.

Seizing her waist to regain control, the tune he’d been humming picking up in speed, Ulfric lifted her into the air as they whirled about. Setting her down, he rapidly executed a new set of steps to see if she could be thrown off.

To the left, to the right. Back and forward and to the side again. A spin here, a dip and a lift there. Their feet flew over the wooden floorboards, barely seeming to touch them. What had started as a simple dance was quickly turning into something much more complex and heated.

Kajsa was nimble, true, but her dark-umber hair was beginning to stick to her face and her movements – the elaborate motions of her arms as she twirled, the agile grapevining of her legs – were growing more and more labored. Though he tried not to show it, the jarl was growing tired as well, both keeping up with her and taking the lead to keep his partner in check.

His chance came soon enough. When the Dragonborn let go of his hands to spin out across the floor, Ulfric caught her waist again and pulled her against him. Kajsa pushed back, but her imbalance sent them both staggering into the single wooden post holding up the ceiling. She straightened up almost instantly, chin held high in defiance

The jarl laughed quietly. “I can see why you had trouble learning Breton dances,” he said, righting himself.

“Why is that?” she asked sardonically, crossing her arms.

“You dance as if you are fighting for your life – not exactly the sort of attitude that goes well with slow, stately court dances.”

“It works well enough for you,” the Dragonborn pointed out.

Ulfric smiled. “Aye. That it does.” Stepping forward, he placed his hands on her shoulders and caught her gaze. “I have had a wonderful time tonight.”

“As have I,” she said quietly. That same unreadable look was back in her eyes, that look that reminded him of dark, swift rapids below the calm surface of a river.

He leaned in, and Kajsa started back, but she composed herself almost before he even noticed her alarm. Her mouth met his, and he pressed a hand to her cheek as he drew her closer, feeling the tension in her waist. They swayed for an instant, a brief reminder of their weariness, before he stepped away.

“I will leave you for tonight, then,” the jarl said quietly. “However, I would appreciate it if you could join me for dinner at the Palace of the Kings tomorrow night.”

The Dragonborn wordlessly nodded.

“I will see you then.” Raising his hand in a silent farewell, Ulfric turned around and walked slowly to the door.

“Ulfric.” Her hoarse voice rose in the still.

He stopped in his tracks, hanging on her single word. _The first time she has called me by name without my title._

“Thank you for this.”

The jarl smiled to himself. “You are welcome.”

* * *

Kajsa sat on the edge of the double bed in her new bedroom: elbows propped up on her knees, turning over the steel dagger Karliah had retrieved in her hands with a pensive, troubled expression on her face. _It can’t be the same one... yet it can’t possibly be any other._

She remembered everything about this weapon. How when she’d first received it, as a birthday present thirteen years prior, it seemed much too large for her. How she’d cut open her palm on it while trying to toss it up in the air and catch it, like she’d seen a traveling minstrel do once. The animals she’d skinned with it and the men she’d killed – it had been in self-defense back then, a simple survival instinct. How it had been taken from her when –

Not wanting to think on the weapon’s past any more, the Dragonborn placed the dagger on her nightstand and stared at it for a moment before digging out something from her knapsack: a thin, rectangular bundle wrapped in rags. She made to undo the wrappings, but checked herself, shaking her head vehemently. _No. I’m_ not _looking at this. I only have it so that it won’t fall into the wrong hands._

Yanking open a drawer of the same nightstand, Kajsa shoved the package inside and slammed the drawer shut. Hefting the knapsack onto the floor, she lay down on the bed without bothering to get underneath the blankets, closing her eyes and hoping for a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the tune for the dance that I had in my head as I was originally writing this was "Gabhaim Molta Bride / Breton Tune" by Neal Hellman. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwtnYeem6V8) , if you'd like.


	25. Disquiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I'm finally out of school - and I know where I'm headed with this story - the chapters should come a lot quicker. Thank you to all of you wonderful readers (and re-readers) for being patient with me.
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Raising Cain," Gregory Alan Isakov](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHICx7WwlhU)

With no further news or orders from Galmar, the following weeks passed by quietly enough. Now that the mild season that passed for summer in Skyrim had finally drawn to a close, the autumn frosts were beginning to creep over the farmlands on the outskirts of the city, as well as slicking the cobblestones of the streets inside of Windhelm’s walls. The howling winds and snowstorms that always battered the stone shops and houses at night only grew in intensity. It wasn’t yet winter, but it was getting close.

The unceremoniously abrupt changing of the seasons only served to make Kajsa grateful that she had a house: not a cramped inn room, or even a slightly more spacious one in the Palace of the Kings, but a _house_ all to herself. In the stolid emptiness of Hjerim, she could do what she liked without having to endure the censure of others. Glorying in the warmth of a freshly-kindled fire in the kitchen hearth while she prepared her meager meals, curled up in a chair by the window with a book, wandering through the narrow hallways lined with empty weapon plaques and planning which one of her collected greatswords would go where... the chaos and strife of the outside world, she enjoyed being alone again. Even in an old, empty house with blood soaked into the floorboards, the solitude was liberating rather than unnerving.

During her brief respite from her duties as a Stormcloak, the Dragonborn found herself slipping into a daily routine. After waking up and gulping down a hasty breakfast, she’d wrap herself in furs to stave off the cold and walk down to the marketplace. There, she’d usually stock up on alchemical ingredients from the White Phial or food from Hillevi Cruel-Sea’s stall if she was running low, but she always found time to receive letters from Niranye and engage her fence in some superficial chatter. Back at Hjerim, she would peruse the letters and job notices from the Guild over a bottle of mead, responding accordingly. She dropped them off at Niranye’s stall later in the day, when she emerged from the warmth and comfort of her house to spend her afternoons in and around Windhelm. Sometimes, she’d stroll around the docks, or practice archery alongside the troops garrisoned in the palace barracks, or even take Shadowmere out for a ride if she was feeling particularly restless.

When she returned to Hjerim once night fell, Kajsa would quickly freshen up and join Ulfric for dinner at the Palace of the Kings. Unlike the last time she had habitually dined with him, when she was collecting bounties for him all those months ago, the Dragonborn was almost beginning to look forward to the nights spent with the jarl: talking about nothing in particular over venison or pheasant, laughing over post-dinner drinks, kissing good-night at the close of the evening...

 _I could get used to this,_ she thought to herself one night as she remained in the jarl’s embrace a little longer than was probably necessary. _Having a home to return to, a city to belong to, someone to be with... even if some part of it is a lie..._

Yes, her days were becoming comfortably predictable – something completely foreign to her. The Dragonborn was used to living life on the edge, never knowing what new and exciting opportunities that tomorrow would bring; this domesticity that she’d grown accustomed to equally repulsed her and comforted her.

But much to her dismay, the lingering after-effects of losing the beastblood kept cropping up: nothing as catastrophic as her violent, unpredictable mood swings, but just as unsettling. Silver still burned her, as she unpleasantly discovered when putting away some goblets in the kitchen cupboard. Her moon’s blood returned after not surfacing at all during the months she had the beastblood, bringing with it her customary cramps and fatigue. Even though she’d always loved her meat rare – both before and after her time as a werewolf – her taste for it was greatly lessening. And of course, her unceasing restlessness: her need to move, to run, to somehow expend the volatile energy left within her. Sometimes, she even found herself waking up in the middle of the night simply to stare at the moonbeams snaking across the floor of her bedroom with a sort of longing.

But even with those disturbances, there was little to keep her asleep for very long as it was. Every night, sometimes every other if she was lucky, Kajsa was seized with her terrible nightmares that caused her to suddenly wake: clutching the blankets so tight that her nails could have torn holes in them, sweating, trying in vain to muffle her screams. Every time she attempted to steel herself against the onslaught, they only seemed to worsen – and every time she let her eyelids fall, that pair of coolly disinterested, malevolent golden eyes loomed in the darkness.

People were starting to notice her agitation and her sleeplessness; of that much, she was sure. Hillevi Cruel-Sea had begun to ask if she was ill, and Quintus Navale kept trying to sell her various potions to cure her ills, as well as a slew of ingredients that would produce the same effect. Niranye would only mention it in passing, seemingly casual, but her eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Unfortunately, Ulfric was one of those people.

“You look tired,” he had observed one night after dinner, brushing some stray locks of hair away from her face; little touches like that were more comfortable now, less cause for alarm. “If you are ill, you should go down to the Temple of Talos and have Jora or Lortheim take a look at you.”

She had given him a wane, strained smile. “I’m fine.”

The jarl had not looked convinced. “Truly?”

She’d sighed then. One of the drawbacks of spending so much time around Ulfric was that he was beginning to read her as well as she was reading him. “I – I’m just having some trouble sleeping,” she’d said flatly.

A dark look had come over his face. “Nightmares?”

She’d hesitated long enough that it was probably clear what her answer was without even saying a word. Finally nodding reluctantly, the Dragonborn had hastily kissed him and bade him good-night, leaving the Palace of the Kings before he could question her any further.

Like with Karliah and Brynjolf and the rest of the Guild, she was loathe to get Ulfric involved any further. Even though she’d kept up this whole charade to eventually seek him out for his help with this, it wasn’t really his fight. It was hers, and no one – not even someone with the jarl of Windhelm’s power and influence – was going to be able to help her except herself.

 _And unless I act soon – just me, only me – others will step in and act for me,_ she’d realized on her walk back to Hjerim, throat tightening as she thought of the cloth-wrapped bundle in her dresser drawer. _And if that happens... I’m not sure I could bear the consequences this time._

Slowly, but surely, it became clear to her what she had to do.

* * *

Ulfric planted both of his hands on the table and leaned over the map of Skyrim, examining it with a critical eye. The parchment’s surface was dotted with single and double blue flags, easily outnumbering those in red. However, there were still clumps of scarlet in the upper left corner – Haafingar and Hjaalmarch – and one in the lower right corner – the Rift. _But those can be taken care of easily enough._

The jarl glanced over at the weather-stained note beside him, scanning over its contents again:

> _Ulfric,_
> 
> _It’s colder than a troll’s nether regions up here in these gods-damned marshes and just as damp. Unfortunately, it’s the only place we can remain without fear of discovery by Morthal’s residents or an Imperial patrol. The only thing worse is the whining of the soldiers amassed in the camp – and believe me, there’s plenty of that._
> 
> _But I didn’t write to plague you with an old man’s complaining. I’m writing to tell you to get the Dragonborn off her ass and send her up to Hjaalmarch. I’ve got a job with her name written all over it._
> 
> _Galmar_

Ulfric briefly chuckled at the letter’s exasperated, mordant tone. _That is Galmar for you._ Straightening, he folded the parchment up and set it aside. As soon as Irmin had brought him the letter, he’d sent the courier out to summon Kajsa to the Palace of the Kings; now, he was just waiting for her to arrive.

The jarl smiled to himself at the thought of her. He’d begun to notice the slight changes in her demeanor and her behavior towards him: a frequently civil tone, smiling and laughing, and of course, the kisses and embraces they shared. It was a far cry from what she’d been like the first time he’d truly met her a little under a year ago: prideful and arrogant, frustratingly impudent, independent. These qualities were still present, but they were overshadowed by – by – a feeling that he couldn’t quite place.

Sometimes, he thought it was her usual mercurial attitude, fueled by a desire to outplay and outmaneuver him in any way possible. Other times, he thought it was affection, one that was on its way to deepening into love. But one feeling that Ulfric kept sensing was nothing like either of those: a quietly grim tenseness, like that of a predator turned prey.

The latter was becoming more and more apparent in the shadows under her dark eyes and the languidness of her motions and the labored quality of her words. She was weary and gaunt, with a haunted look about her, and she’d admitted that she’d had trouble sleeping due to nightmares, but the Dragonborn refused to discuss them.

The jarl didn’t want to press her about them, but he feared that if her condition worsened, he’d have to confront her. _If I have to force a confession from her, it will lessen whatever trust in me that she has regained. I have worked too hard towards this for it to fall apart now._

The sound of a throat being cleared from by the doorway of the war room jerked him out of his thoughts. Glancing up, the jarl saw Kajsa leaning against the stone wall: clad in her usual garb of a belted tunic and leggings with her robe draped over her shoulders, seemingly without a care in the world.

“You summoned me?” she asked pointedly.

Ulfric smiled. “Actually, Galmar has. It is my understanding that he has need of you in Hjaalmarch.”

The Dragonborn frowned, coming over to the table in the center of the room. “What for?”

“I do not know, but whatever it is, you should probably leave as soon as possible. Judging from the tone of his letter, Galmar’s patience is fast nearing its end.” He offered the parchment to her.

She sighed, waving it away. “Isn’t it always?”

“With you, perhaps, but rarely with me. This ‘job’ that he mentioned must be something of great importance.”

“I’ll leave tonight, then.” She turned around and made to leave.

Dodging around the corner of the table, the jarl caught Kajsa by the wrist, more to stop her from leaving than any show of force. “I did not mean that you could not stay for dinner tonight.”

Instantly flicking her hand off his wrist, the Dragonborn glanced back at him with something akin to irritation in her eyes. “If Galmar wants me tromping through the marshes on some secret mission, then it’s probably for the best if I get out there as soon as possible,” she said with a stubborn edge to her voice.

Ulfric sighed. “At least try to get some sleep before leaving. You look as though you are ready to collapse.”

“I’ll try.” She smiled tightly. “No guarantees that I’ll get any real rest.”

Letting go of her wrist, the jarl brought his hand up to cup her cheek: cold and wind-burned from the storm that raged around Windhelm that evening. “Your nightmares keep you from any sort of sleep?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“What are they about?” he asked, drawing her into his arms. He was beginning to get a sense of how she liked to be held, with one arm wrapped around her shoulder and his other hand on her waist; he always relished the slight shiver that ran through her body as he placed it there, but this time, there was nothing but tension in her.

Lowering her eyes, Kajsa remained silent for a few moments before finally confessing: “Events from – from my past.”

“Ah,” he said quietly. _I know better than to ask for details now._ He knew all too well the feeling of being pressed for answers that he was unwilling to give and being grilled about his past mistakes.

“You are not alone in having a sordid past,” he continued. “If you ever wish to discuss them with one who will not judge you –”

An almost derisive snort. “ _That’s_ what I’m worried about.”

Ulfric frowned; _that,_ he hadn’t been expecting. “Why?”

“Because my past is something that I have to face alone.”

Lifting his hand from her waist, the jarl tilted her head up so he could meet her eyes. “You do not always have to be alone,” he said. “You know that I would defend you from anything that fate deals you... as you would me.”

“Perhaps,” she concurred. “But this time, it’s just me again – just as it was before.”

 _“Before?” Before what?_ “Promise me this one thing,” he finally said, leaning in.

“What?” she asked warily.

Ulfric kissed her, long and soft and slow. “If you need help with whatever you are setting out to do... do not hesitate to come to me.” _I would not like to see you wounded – or worse. Not at this hour in the war._

After a torturous pause, the Dragonborn pulled away, shaking her head as her eyes darkened in remembered pain. “I can’t promise you that, Ulfric. Not anymore.”

With that, she turned away and left him standing there: still as a statue, unable to say or do something that would make her listen to him, feeling the frustration he’d denied for so long over this affair slipping through the cracks of his façade.


	26. A False Front (Part I)

The late afternoon air was unusually still, devoid of any talking or laughter or snatches of song, sounds that would normally accompany a triumphant band of soldiers. But silence hung over the snow-covered road, broken only by the clopping of horses’ hooves and the muffled tramping of feet on the worn cobblestones. Any passerby who had happened to share the road to Morthal with the procession of Stormcloaks would not have found rejoicing on their faces, but rather uneasiness and fear – fear of the hooded woman on horseback at the head of the column.

Kajsa was not in a mood to listen to the rumors and exaggerated accounts of her role in the battle at Fort Snowhawk. She didn’t particularly care if the soldiers were afraid and suspicious of her. The Dragonborn was much too tired and exasperated to worry about anything beyond her latest mission and what would come afterwards.

The job that Galmar had assigned her upon her arrival at the camp in Hjaalmarch seemed simple enough at first: ambush an Imperial courier, retrieve the plans he was carrying through any means necessary, and deliver them to Galmar for some “corrections,” as he had phrased it. Tracking people down was an art that she’d perfected while taking contracts for the Dark Brotherhood, so the initial phase of the general’s master plan went off without a hitch – as did disguising herself in a set of Imperial armor stolen from the outpost in Dragonsbridge, and then delivering the forged plans to the legate stationed in Morthal. The real challenge had been capturing Fort Snowhawk.

In retrospect, the Dragonborn cursed herself for not realizing sooner that the more holds the Stormcloaks held, the more enemy soldiers were available for Imperial-controlled ones. Even if the officers at Fort Snowhawk had put in a request for reinforcements, as shown on the stolen plans, it did not necessarily mean that they were down to their last man – and she and the rest of the Stormcloaks storming the fort had discovered that soon enough.

Due to the early hour and the skill of their archers, she and the soldiers had had the advantage at first; however, the Imperials showed their true numbers as soon as the attacking forces had broken through the barricades. The Stormcloaks had fought valiantly, but the defenders fought back just as fiercely. Soon, it had gone from a “clean” takeover and spiraled into an all-out bloodbath.  

Sensing that the remaining Stormcloaks were going to be slaughtered if the battle continued in this manner, Kajsa had made a split-second decision. At the time, she hadn't even been sure whether executing her last-resort plan would even work – but fortunately, it had. Yes, it was violent and rather bloody, but needless to say, the rest of the casualties were all Imperial.

Her improvised maneuver that had turned the tide of battle divided the surviving Stormcloaks in opinion. There were the reverent ones, the ones who bowed their heads in respect and awe and murmured “Dragonborn” as she walked past. There were the suspicious ones, the ones who stopped muttering amongst themselves whenever she drew near. And then there were the frightened ones, the ones shocked by her display of power, who shrunk away from her in dread. The latter two groups bled into each other and far outnumbered the first.

The Dragonborn didn’t have time to care about their opinion of her. What mattered was that Fort Snowhawk was captured, and she quickly sent off a notice to Galmar via courier informing him of the fact before busying herself with other details: ordering the digging of a mass grave for the Imperials, going through the dead legate’s papers, making sure that the storerooms held enough supplies. It wasn’t until late afternoon that she’d heard back from the general. In his letter, he ordered her to take a detachment of troops and meet him in Morthal; they’d surrendered as soon as the Stormcloaks had been sighted coming up through the marshes.

Seeing the frozen dirt path hugging the mountainside that led into the hold capital, Kajsa carefully guided Shadowmere down it, with the soldiers tramping after her. The thatched, snow-covered roofs of the squat wooden buildings began to appear, followed by the bodies of the houses and shops as she descended on to the main road running through the town. Several people had appeared from their homes and watched the Stormcloaks marching in with empty, defeated eyes.

Underneath her hood, the Dragonborn couldn’t stop her lip from curling in distaste. She’d always held a deeply-rooted dislike of Morthal, this run-down dump in the middle of the marshes, where vampires had lurked until she’d wiped out their coven. She could never fathom why the jarl had ever bothered to give her the title of Thane of Hjaalmarch, except to maybe slight her.

Galmar, a cluster of soldiers hovering around him, was waiting for her by the front steps of Highmoon Hall. “You sure took your sweet time getting here, Red-Blade.”

Pulling Shadowmere up to the jarl’s home, Kajsa dismounted. “You’re older and more out-of-shape than I. I had to give you a head start.”

The Stormcloak general snorted indelicately. “Too busy cleaning up after your little mess at Fort Snowhawk, eh?”

She narrowed her eyes dangerously. “Don’t start on me, Galmar. I did what I had to do in order to take the fort.”

“A _dragon?_ Sure, it’s effective, but that’s a little excessive, Red-Blade.” He leaned in out of curiosity. “That _is_ what happened, correct? Heard a damn strange account from the courier you sent.”

“What did that blasted boy tell you?” The Dragonborn ascended the steps, opened the wooden door, and slipped inside.

Galmar followed her in, trailed by a detachment of soldiers, and then closed the door behind them. “Just that the battle was going to Oblivion – _fast_ – until you Shouted something and called down a dragon that toasted the Imperials and won us Fort Snowhawk. And that afterwards, you spoke to it personally.”

“‘It’ has a name: Odahviing.”

“So it _was_ true after all,” the general said triumphantly. “I knew there had to be a reason Morthal surrendered so quickly! I don’t suppose you could do that for the rest of this war’s battles, eh?”

Kajsa smiled humorlessly and then changed the subject, lowering her voice. “Why are we in Highmoon Hall, Galmar?”

“Escorting the jarl and her family to the guardhouse prison before they or anyone associated can send out any more letters to Solitude.” He scowled. “We already caught one of their couriers sneaking out of town with the legate’s papers. Can’t afford losing any advantage to Tullius.”

From the dais at the far end of the hall, the robed figure of Jarl Idgrod Raven-Crone rose from her throne. “There is no need to whisper, Galmar Stone-Fist. I can hear you quite well from here.”

“Then you know where you’re headed,” Galmar rejoined. “Think of it as me giving you a little warning.”

The jarl of Morthal smiled mysteriously. “I have had plenty of warning.”

A couple of the Stormcloaks made quick hex gestures or muttered prayers for protection against Idgrod’s gift of foresight – it was well-known, but rarely taken seriously by anyone but the superstitious.

“My thane.” Idgrod’s voice rang out in the high-ceilinged hall. “May I speak with you for a brief moment?”

The general shot an incredulous look at the Dragonborn. “Please tell me she’s not talking about you, Red-Blade.”

“It was not my idea, let me tell you that.” Leaving the stunned group of Stormcloaks hovering by the entrance, Kajsa strode forward and then came to a halt at the foot of the dais. She bobbed her head quickly to show some deference. “Jarl Idgrod.”

“I am Jarl no longer. I do not hold that title now. However, you hold the title of Stormcloak. Curious.” Her milky eyes scrutinized the blue-and-bronze cuirass, dirty from battle. “And Dragonborn as well. You are a strange one.”

“Stranger than some,” Kajsa agreed wryly.

Idgrod let out a rasping laugh. “Indeed. There is much I would like to tell you, but I fear there is not enough time.”

The Dragonborn frowned. “What is it?”

Stepping forward, the aged jarl took the younger woman’s hand in her own, closing her eyes and running her bony fingers over the back of the palm. Kajsa remained still and silent, not wishing to disturb her in whatever she was doing.

“So much sorrow and darkness in one so young.” Idgrod shook her head ruefully. “Your soul is fiery, but tainted, on the verge of consuming itself. What a pity.”

The Dragonborn felt her unease growing. _She’s using her... her_ gifts _on me... What is she seeing?_

“I see three men,” the jarl murmured, half to herself. “The one that walks with you, the dark swordsman. The one you run to, the great bear. And the one that you run from, the golden-eyed one.”

Goosebumps rose on the back of Kajsa’s neck.

“One is your past, but you mistake him for present. One is your present, but you are unsure of whether he will be your future. And one is your present, but you wish him to be your past.

“Two you love and one you hate. Two will destroy you and one will save you. Which ones they are, I cannot say, but you will know the truth of my words soon.” Idgrod released her hand. “Farewell, and heed my counsel well.”

Turning around, the Dragonborn hesitantly withdrew, feeling the jarl’s eyes boring into her as she walked past Galmar and opened the door to the outside.

“Well?” the general demanded. “What did she say?”

The bang of the closing door cut off his question.


	27. A False Front (Part II)

Compared to the elegant and delicate architecture of the buildings of Solitude, the harshly utilitarian Castle Dour stuck out like a vulture among swans: looming stone walls, craggy towers, multitudes of steep stairways. It seemed only fitting that it was the seat of the efficient, orderly Imperial Legion in Skyrim. During the day, the vast courtyard was filled with soldiers training and honing their battle skills and officers drilling them; with the exception of a few guards patrolling the battlements, the exterior of the fortress was deserted at night, making it seem a sleeping, armored beast.

Not one of the sentries noticed the living shadow flattened itself against the walls, flitting up the main stairway that led to the wall-walk, but stopping instead at a small circular balcony against one of the main towers and creeping over to the silver-barred door that led inside. Crouching down by the door, the infiltrator – not a shadow after all, but a figure dressed in ornate armor of overlapping scales of black leather and a long hooded cape with a mask that shrouded its face – drew out a lock pick and a tension wrench from a pouch on its hip and set to work on the lock. It didn’t take long for the lock to spring open with a _click_ and then for the figure to straighten up slightly, carefully open the door, and then slip inside silently.

The interior of the tower was nearly as dark as the night outside, but it was much more imperative to see in here. Conjuring a small glowing ball of candlelight, the figure let it float up above its head to illuminate the surroundings.

From behind the impassive leather mask of her Nightingale’s armor, Kajsa scanned the deserted room with keen eyes. The Thalmor Embassy’s headquarters in Haafingar’s capital were no more impressive than other manors that housed Solitude’s rich: walls of plaster and stone, floors of criss-crossing milky tile, accents of silver or blue here and there, glass-paned windows. Aside from the table in the center of the room with the map of Skyrim or the shelves against the walls that held countless leather-bound ledgers or the crimson and black banners of the Imperial Legion, it would have looked much like a wealthy noble’s home. _If it hadn’t been for the letter that Karliah recovered, I would have had no idea that anyone had met here recently. It looks abandoned._

Ignoring the lure of some trinkets from the Summerset Isles on display in a locked case, the Dragonborn paced over to one of the bookshelves, running her fingers over the spines of the books thoughtfully. Selecting one at random, she opened it up to find a meticulous account of expenses for payments and maintenance costs. Flipping through the pages out of curiosity, she found that the last entry was dated over a year ago.

 _Not helpful._ Sliding it back into place, Kajsa continued her scrutiny of the ledgers on the shelves. Most of them were expense accounts and other assorted dull records. _I suppose that the Thalmor entrusting their case files to the Legion would be too much to hope for._

Slipping over to the stone staircase, the Dragonborn slunk down and around the stairs into a stone basement with a low, vaulted ceiling. It was only a storeroom, crammed with cabinets and rows of stacked barrels; the cooking pot over the small fireplace attested that it had been partially converted into a makeshift kitchen. She looked through a few of the barrels and drawers, but all she found were assorted dried foods and cooking utensils.

Stealing back up the stairs to the main floor and then up again, Kajsa found herself investigating a comfortably spacious bedroom, the walls draped with Legion banners. A lit chandelier hung from the ceiling over a neatly made up four-poster double bed. Plates ready for food and goblets awaiting wine were set out on a wooden table by the window. In a back alcove, all three of the stout wardrobes were neatly filled and organized: one with fine clothes and shoes, another with enchanted swords fit on an inside weapons rack, and the last with elegant glass bottles of poisons and potions.

 _Someone has stayed here not long ago._ Emerging into the main room again, the Dragonborn crossed her arms and gave the bedroom another once-over, chewing her lip in concentration. _But who?_

Her eyes fell on a long desk at the foot of the bed, bare save for an inkwell with a quill and a bulging leather folio. Pulse quickening, she darted over to it, pulling out the chair and seating herself hastily. Kajsa snatched up the folio and unwound the string around it, opening it up to allow some of its contents to spill across the desk: journals, some loose papers, a marked-up map.

Frowning, the Dragonborn picked up the first of the journals and opened it to the title page, and scanned the two lines of perfect, upright script:

**Investigation: Imperial City Thalmor Embassy Robbery**

_Report by Justiciar Orthorien Aundae  
_

Heart pounding, Kajsa slammed the cover shut with shaking hands. Stuffing the journal and the other displaced objects back into the folio and winding the cord around it again, she stood up, clutching the leather folio to her chest.

In that instant, the bobbing ball of candlelight above her winked out. Sighing quietly, she prepared to cast the spell again – but froze as she heard the sound of the door on the main floor opening.

 _Someone’s here._ The Dragonborn whipped her head around frantically, searching for a hiding place in the open bedroom. _What I wouldn’t give to be the Agent of Stealth instead of Strife right now!_

Making a split-second decision, she quickly and quietly tiptoed over to the four-poster bed. Dropping to her stomach, still gripping the folio, Kajsa slid herself under the bed, making sure that the blankets hung long enough to cover her. Forcing her breathing to slow, she stiffened her muscles to keep herself in place as she waited on tenterhooks.

A set of heavy, sure footsteps stamped across the floor below, followed by the sound of a door slamming. “That damned Justiciar isn’t here. Good.”

Kajsa swallowed. _Oh,_ shit. _It’s Tullius._

“With all due respect, sir,” came the measured, but dry voice of Legate Rikke, “why the current Thalmor presence in Solitude in the first place? Isn’t the reason that we’re even able to conference here is that the elves keep to the actual Embassy instead of staying in the city?”

“First Emissary Elenwen claims that they’re here to protect against infiltration by Stormcloak spies.” A derisive snort showed his true feelings about the excuse. “It would appear that she deems me incapable of managing the Legion’s own intelligence network efficiently.”

“Or the Thalmor seek to keep tabs on the Legion itself, sir,” Rikke pointed out. “Or perhaps they have a hidden agenda of their own –”

“Of _course_ they have an agenda!” Tullius snapped. “This is the Aldmeri Dominion we’re talking about, Legate; they have ulterior motives for everything!”

“Of course, sir.”

The general sighed, letting out his breath in one irritated huff. “We can speculate all we want on the Thalmor’s mission in Solitude later, Legate. Brief me on the situation in Hjaalmarch first.”

“To be honest, sir, it’s not at all good.”

“So I gathered. I’ve been hearing some alarming reports and rumors from the few returning soldiers. Simply set the record straight, Legate, no matter how bad it is.”

The legate took a shaky breath before launching in. “Hjaalmarch has fallen to the Stormcloaks. They hold Fort Snowhawk and Morthal both. Jarl Idgrod and her family have been imprisoned and Sorli the Builder has taken the throne.”

A pause. “Tell me more about Fort Snowhawk, Legate,” General Tullius finally said in a strained voice. “Is it true that there was a dragon attack that turned the battle in favor of the rebels?”

“I have a single witness, a courier and intelligence officer, who confirms the story, sir. He says that the dragon swooped down and immediately began targeting the legionnaires.”

“Only the legionnaires? _Not_ the Stormcloaks?”

“That’s what my witness said, sir, and he is known to be a keen observer,” defended Legate Rikke. “He didn’t tarry long after the battle for fear of being captured, but – he witnessed something more... disturbing.”

“Go on, Legate.” Tullius’ tone was equal parts exasperation and dread.

“He says that the dragon landed on the battlements of Fort Snowhawk and a Stormcloak woman approached it. The dragon appeared to – to _converse_ with her and – she responded to it in whatever language it was speaking in.” She took another breath and continued with only a tinge of hesitation. “The description the courier gave me of the woman matches that of the Dragonborn.”

The _thud_ of a frustrated fist slamming into a table. “I knew there was a reason that the tide was turning in favor of that – that power-hungry, arrogant, usurping _bastard!_ ” The general nearly hissed the last word in anger.

“I’ve long suspected that the Dragonborn had joined Ulfric’s ca – _rebellion_ after the temporary truce ended, but I’ve never had any concrete evidence until now.” Rikke’s voice turned scathing. “Red-Blade, as she is aptly named, has a habit of not leaving many potential eyewitnesses in her wake.”

“So you suspected her involvement in the operation at Korvanjund, and the sacking of Whiterun and Falkreath Holds?”

“I believe that her involvement goes beyond a reasonable doubt, sir. I’ve got a gut feeling about this that I can’t ignore.”

General Tullius laughed humorlessly. “Is there anything that this so-called ‘Dragonborn’ _isn’t_ involved in? The Stormcloak rebels, the Companions, Thaneship in Whiterun and the Rift and Haafingar – and _why_ did that airhead Elisif even make her a Thane in the first place? It’s like welcoming a killer into your house for a drink before your execution!”

“I apologize for interrupting, sir, but... I’ve just remembered a rather interesting detail that may shed some light on our earlier conversation.” The legate’s voice was grim. “I overheard a conversation between Jarl Elisif and the Justiciar that’s taken up residence here – Orthorien, I believe his name is. It concerned the Dragonborn.”

Silence. “Continue, Legate,” Tullius ordered, his tone serious.

“The Justiciar seemed to be questioning Jarl Elisif about the Dragonborn’s activities in Solitude. He demanded that the jarl’s steward give him the key to Proudspire Manor, which I can only assume is where the Dragonborn has taken up residence.”

“And?”

“She asked Justiciar Orthorien why he wanted to gain access to Proudspire Manor. He did not take kindly to having his authority questioned and left soon afterwards. As far as I know, Elisif did not have Falk give him the key.”

“The naïve temerity of that woman,” the general grumbled. “Why didn’t I learn of this sooner, Legate?”

“The surviving courier from Fort Snowhawk arrived not long after and I had to take his account,” Legate Rikke responded. “Sir, do you suppose that the Thalmor are here searching for the Dragonborn?”

“It’s a likely possibility. I don’t imagine that Red-Blade and the Aldmeri Dominion are the best of friends. Either way, there’s more to this Justiciar than meets the eye.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

“First of all, he’s clearly a Justiciar; however, in the letter that Elenwen sent concerning the stationing of Thalmor in Solitude, she wrote that he was the newly instated Second Emissary.”

“If he was an ambassador, wouldn’t he be staying at the Thalmor Embassy?” Rikke questioned.

“Which is why I don’t buy it. He’s claimed that he’s taking over the duties of Second Emissary as well as ‘heading an ongoing investigation of great importance.’” General Tullius quoted the Justiciar with no small amount of disdain. “In all likelihood, given your information, it has something to do with the Dragonborn, but I don’t know the details.”

“I believe his notes are upstairs on his desk. I can go up there and fetch them if you would like me to, sir,” the legate offered.

Kajsa froze. Suddenly, the folio clutched in her arms seemed the heaviest weight imaginable.

“Out of the question, Legate,” Tullius barked instantly. “The risk is too great. If this... _Justiciar Orthorien_ discovers that we’ve interfered with his investigation in any way, we _will_ be put on trial for treason against the Dominion – and there is only one outcome in those trials.”

“Understood, sir,” Legate Rikke conceded, clearly shaken.

There was silence once more. Kajsa wanted to release the pent-up breath she’d been holding in, but settled for slowly exhaling as to avoid detection.

The general broke the still with a weary sigh. “These past few weeks have not boded well for us. Haafingar and the Rift are the only two holds we control now, and Ulfric and his army of rebels will soon overrun them unless we act quickly and decisively.”

“What do you propose, sir?”

A longer silence. Then: “I need you to deploy all the troops we can spare to the Rift and then travel there as well to organize them. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” General Tullius’ voice held a hint of satisfaction. “We’re going to shore up defenses in Riften before the Stormcloaks get to it, and then march on Windhelm and take the city – and put that treacherous bastard’s head on a pike while we’re at it.”

* * *

Heart thudding like a drum, mouth dry, Kajsa sat astride Shadowmere, bent over his neck as she urged him on as fast as he would go. The stallion’s mane, the bitterly frigid, howling wind, and the icy snowflakes slapped her face and brought stinging tears to her unmasked eyes. Her armor’s cape fluttered out behind her, and her hood had long since whipped back, allowing the snowstorm to tangle her hair with knots.

 _I need to get to Windhelm. I need to get to Windhelm._ She kept chanting it inside her head like a battle cry. _I still have time._

 _But how much time?_ As soon as Tullius and Rikke had left, she’d escaped the embassy headquarters as rapidly and as stealthily as she could – sprinting through the darkened streets of Solitude like all Oblivion was behind her – mounting Shadowmere and spurring him onward down the road from Solitude.

 _There’s got to be time. There’s got to be. I cannot fail in this. I cannot._ Digging her heels into the stallion’s flanks and tightening her mouth into a darkly determined line, the Dragonborn forced him into an all-out gallop.

_There’s too much at stake – for both of us._


	28. Unresolved Tensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Cover of Night," Steve Reynolds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhLkErOt-ds)

Between the unyielding stone wall of the war room and the table with the map of Skyrim, Ulfric restlessly paced back and forth with his hands folded behind him and his brow furrowed in thought. It was close to midnight by now, but sleep was the last thing on his mind at this moment.

He’d just responded to a letter that Galmar had sent via courier and arrived in the early afternoon. Brief and to the point, his housecarl wrote that Hjaalmarch had been successfully captured, Stormcloak troops had taken control of Fort Snowhawk, and Sorli the Builder had replaced Idgrod Ravencrone as Jarl.

_Tullius must be getting nervous; taking Hjaalmarch means we are only a step away from Solitude. We will be able to march on the city soon enough... but before we can lay siege to the capitol, we still have the Rift to worry about..._

Ever since the short-lived ceasefire had bequeathed the Rift to the Empire, the jarl had always made sure that the southern border of Eastmarch was secured, in order to prevent surprise attacks by the Imperial Legion’s troops. The Stormcloaks had always succeeded in repulsing any would-be invaders, but Ulfric greatly preferred not having to worry about legionnaires even attempting to infiltrate Eastmarch in the first place.

 _Taking back the Rift should not be much of a challenge._ He glanced over at the two missives with broken wax seals – one in red and the other in purple – lying open by where the Rift was outlined on the map. _Thanks to Kajsa pulling strings with the Guild, I have the schedule of troop movements in and out of Fort Greenwall. That will greatly aid Galmar in planning an attack._

Pausing his incessant pacing for a moment, the jarl picked up the letter with the purple seal and re-read it again:

> _To Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm,_
> 
> _As you very well know, I have recently been given the title of Jarl of the Rift. Kajsa Red-Blade, the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild and the Dragonborn, has informed me that this was due to her influence in the negotiating of a short-lived ceasefire between the Empire and your Stormcloaks; therefore, I am in debt to her. Personally, I think this whole thing is ridiculous, but I have nothing but the greatest respect for Guildmaster Red-Blade and will follow her advice._
> 
> _I have a proposition for you. I’m sure you realize that if you take back the Rift, the former jarl, Laila Law-Giver, will expect her title back. However, it would be pointless to reinstate her; I have always had control over Riften, despite Law-Giver mistakenly believing that she ran the city. The Guildmaster has recommended that I write to you with the suggestion that, on the occasion you regain the Rift, I remain Jarl and swear fealty to you instead, cutting off my ties to the Empire._
> 
> _Think it over carefully, Jarl Ulfric. I await your response._
> 
> _Maven Black-Briar, Jarl of Riften_

Sighing disgustedly, he put the letter down again. Ulfric held a deep-seated dislike of Maven Black-Briar that had strengthened with every encounter; though she was an ardent supporter of the Empire, and the Aldmeri Dominion as well, the criminal businesswoman kept endeavoring to cozy up to him and keep on his good side. In fact, she’d even suggested once that he marry her daughter – “to strengthen positive relations,” as she’d put it. The jarl had had nothing against Ingun, who was actually quite lovely and (thankfully) nothing like her mother, but he’d had an issue with Maven trying to gain a foothold for her less-than-legal dealings in Windhelm, and the marriage negotiations had gone downhill rather quickly. That debacle had occurred a few years ago, and Ulfric hadn’t spoken to any member of the Black-Briar family since.

Unfortunately, he had a foreboding feeling that his prospective dealings with Maven Black-Briar would prove much more trying than an argument over Ingun’s potential future as his wife. Ulfric would have liked nothing more than to simply release Laila Law-Giver from prison and reinstate her position, but imprisoning the current jarl would be pointless; Maven seemed to control Riften’s underworld like a puppet-master at a summer fair and could easily bribe or threaten a guard into releasing her in no time at all. Since Kajsa would most likely be handling the negotiations, as Maven seemed to have a grudging respect for her, the jarl had his suspicions that she would favor the Black-Briar matriarch due to her association with the Thieves Guild. But then again, since the Dragonborn was almost certainly going behind Maven’s back in ordering the Thieves Guild to stir up chaos in the Rift, there _was_ a chance that she could negotiate in his favor.

Thinking of Kajsa brought back his simmering anger and frustration from before. On the night she’d left for Hjaalmarch, Ulfric had raged at himself for not trying to wrench a confession from her, for not making her promise to ask for help if she needed it, for – for not doing enough. He’d cursed her independence and her stubbornness – especially that – and her mixed signals toward him, drawing him nearer one minute and pushing him away the next.

Over the next three days, the jarl had tried to convince himself that if that was what the Dragonborn truly wanted, to be left alone to fight her own battles, he had no business getting involved. But another, deeply-rooted part of himself reminded him of the pallor of her face and the haunted, hollow look of her eyes and whispered that any honorable, chivalrous Nord man would never leave a lady in distress. Whether or not Kajsa had the manners and blood of a highborn lady was debatable, but there was no doubt that she was most definitely in distress.

 _But what will my next move be? To confront her? To comfort her?_ He sighed heavily. _What other choices have I?_

The sudden slamming open of the door at the end of the narrow hallway that led to the war room brought him back to the present. Rushed, sprinting footsteps echoed down the corridor and then skidded to a stop as a slender, slight figure in ornate armor of overlapping scales of black leather and a long hooded cape with a mask that shrouded its face burst through the doorway. Ulfric stopped in his tracks, whirling around to confront the stranger, but the words on his lips died as the figure pulled its mask back and shook back its hood and the short, raggedly cut hair underneath the garment.

It was Kajsa, her face even more drawn and taut then before and her eyes dark with urgency. “Jarl Ulfric –” she started to gasp out.

“Where have you been?” he cut her off immediately, all of the pent-up anger within him burning through his calm. “Three days have passed since you left –”

“– Ulfric, wait –” She crossed to him hastily.

“– and I heard no word from you whatsoever!” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You refuse my help and now –”

“– Ulfric, _listen_ –” Her voice was almost pleading now.

“– you leave me in the dark about everything and push me away and deny –”

“DAMMIT, ULFRIC, LISTEN TO ME!” Her shout, laced with a threatening undertone of the Thu’um, rang out in the small room.

Without warning, the Dragonborn seized hold of the collar of the jarl’s robe and, throwing all her weight behind the motion, thrust him up against the stone wall. Still firmly clutching his clothing, knuckles white and hands shaking from cold, she glared up at him with sudden outrage.

“Shut up, _my jarl,_ ” she hissed through her teeth, “and let me speak.”

Ulfric returned her glare with just as much outrage as she, shoving her away from him and sending her staggering back into the table with the force behind his motion. _Who does she think she is to manhandle me and give_ me _orders?_ “Why should I let you speak now after your insistence on holding your tongue for so long?”

“Because Tullius plots to march on Windhelm.”

His wrath was instantly supplanted with fear and dread. The jarl’s breath stuck in his throat as he stared at her, not wanting to believe her words. “ _What?_ ”

“Tullius plots to march on Windhelm,” Kajsa repeated flatly, her hands clutching the edge of the table. “He’s sending Legate Rikke and all the legionnaires he can spare to the Rift to shore up defenses there, and then joining them himself for the attack.”

“How do you know this?” he questioned harshly.

“After taking Hjaalmarch, I was doing some reconnaissance in Solitude and I overheard a conversation between the general and the legate.” Her eyes were hard. “I couldn’t send a courier because I didn’t want my location to be known.”

Ignoring her caustic remark, Ulfric sat down heavily in a nearby chair, propping up one elbow on the armrest and rubbing his forehead wearily. _Tullius is getting desperate... but fortunately, desperate men make careless mistakes._ “We will need to take the Rift back before the Legion’s troops get there, then – and quickly.”

Kajsa nodded tiredly; now that she had delivered her message, she seemed to collapse in on herself with weariness. “Galmar should be at the camp in the Rift by now. I’ll – I’ll leave for there immediately to start forming battle plans.” Slowly, she pushed herself away from the table and made to leave.

The terrible realization of what he’d done struck him. _Even after all I have done, her trust in me wanes once more._ Catching her wrist, the jarl rose to his feet. “Wait.”

“ _Why?_ ” Her sharp tone cut deeper than any blade. “You made it very clear that you didn’t want to see me.”

Ulfric sighed, the exhalation of breath sounding ominously final. “I only wish for you to listen to me for a few moments.”

“Well?” she asked impatiently, jerking her wrist from his grip and crossing her arms under her chest in displeasure. “What is it?”

“An apology.” The words slipped out before he could stop to consider them. “I apologize for losing my temper with you. You risked your life taking Hjaalmarch and infiltrating Solitude to get this information, and it was hardly right of me to repay you with the words I gave you.” He paused, taking another breath before forcing out his next words. “If there is anything I can do to help you in this, you have only to name it.”

The Dragonborn looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I already told you that I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?” the jarl demanded, gripping her forearms with both hands, fighting back the frustration that was clawing its way to the surface again.

“Because – because I –” Kajsa faced him again; her face was impassive, but as always, the darkness in her eyes and the tension in her limbs told the whole story. “I don’t want to see any harm come to you or anyone else.”

That surprised him. _She is not a noble sort. There is more to this than that._ “Really?” he asked quietly, darkly. “But you _are_ doing me harm, Kajsa... just not in the way that you are thinking of.”

Loosening his hold on her, Ulfric lifted up her jaw, cradling it with the edge of his hand. “Every time I see the shadows under your eyes, every time you avoid talking about the nightmares that haunt you, every time you turn down my offers of aid... it is as though you are flinging all I have given you – everything I have trusted you with – back in my face. It troubles me to see one such as you so afraid and alone, but the way you push me away with your stubbornness and your pride, it almost seems to me that you wish to remain this way.”

Kajsa gaped at him in outrage, tears rising in her eyes, but not falling. “You – you _bastard!_ ” she spat. “If you honestly think that – that I _like_ living like this – ”

“I do not,” he rejoined firmly, ignoring her insult. “And I do not wish to continue to see you like this. I _need_ you to accept my help... because I do not know how much more of your distress I can endure while not being able to do a damn thing about it.”

The Dragonborn swallowed silently, biting down hard on her lower lip. There was nothing but hurt and betrayal in her face, and some part of the jarl loathed himself for adding to it.

Finally: “There’s one thing that I will allow.”

Ulfric let out his breath. “And what is that?” he asked quietly.

Raising herself up on her tiptoes and batting away his hand, Kajsa leaned over his shoulder until her mouth was by his ear. Her next words were halting, disjointed, almost as if she was forcing herself to choke them out. “If you don’t hear word from me after we’ve taken back the Rift, go to Riften for yourself. At the Bee and Barb, ask for Sapphire. When you find her, tell her that the daggers in men’s smiles will turn unto their hearts.”

“And then?” he prompted, impatient.

“Ask her for directions to the Ragged Flagon, and she will lead you there. Once you arrive, request to meet with these four people: Brynjolf, Delvin Mallory, Vex, and Karliah. When you do, ask them who darkened the door of Vlindrel Hall.” She drew back, eyes dark with trepidation. “Can you remember all that?”

The jarl nodded curtly. _There is no chance of my forgetting it._ “This is all you will allow me to do?” His voice was sharper than he'd intended.

Kajsa hesitated. “There’s a very high chance that the solution to my – my _problem_ lies in the Rift already. If I succeed in resolving it, then you won’t have to resort to my plan. But if not...” Her voice trailed off and then strengthened again. “What you do after you meet with Brynjolf and the others is up to you.”

Ulfric paused. “All right,” he agreed. _Knowing her, I should consider myself fortunate that she at least agreed to this much._

The Dragonborn’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you.”

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he smiled. “No, Kajsa. I should be the one thanking you.”

Pulling her into his arms and threading his fingers through her hair, the jarl kissed her hard on the mouth, unable to restrain himself. Pressing herself against him, she gripped his shoulders to stabilize herself as she kissed him back, her lips still cool from the biting wind.

 _Oh, gods, I have missed her so..._ Lifting her up by the waist, Ulfric set her down on the edge of the table, wrapping his arms around her again. His mouth left hers to brush along the edge of her jaw and down her neck, the only part of her other than her face that was exposed by her armor. He could feel her pulse pounding under his lips; whether it was out of arousal or fear, he had no way of knowing.

Kajsa moaned softly, the sound almost too soft for him to hear. Spurred on, the jarl let one hand run down her waist, over her hip, and then underneath her thigh as he pulled her leg up and around him, tilting the Dragonborn’s hips into his. His other hand found the small of her back and pressed into it, causing her to arch her back involuntarily.

“Ulfric –” she gasped.

“Mmm?” Face still pressed into her neck, he breathed in; she smelled of pine trees and leather, sharp and spicy. _Oh, she wants this... perhaps even more than I do..._

“I don’t suppose –” her breath hitched as he kissed her throat again “– we could find time for  – for this _after_ we take back the Rift?”

Frowning, Ulfric lifted up his head to meet her gaze. “You frustrating woman,” he stated, only half in jest, “you are intent on torturing me.”

Her mouth tightened. “Think of it this way," she said lightly, her tone belying her dark look, “battalions of legionnaires outside Windhelm’s walls can do more to cool lust than I ever could.”

The jarl laughed, hiding his disappointment. “I can hardly argue with that.” He reluctantly hoisted her off the table and set her down. “Another time, then. Perhaps after you return from the Rift in triumph...”

“Perhaps,” Kajsa said evasively. She paused, then leaned in to give him a slight kiss. “Until then, Ulfric. Until then.” Turning around, she walked to the doorway and vanished through it.

For a moment, he entertained the notion of calling her back to ask her opinion on the issue of Maven Black-Briar and to give her the stolen missive from Fort Greenwall – and possibly placing her on the table again to finish what they’d started – but dismissed it. _You’re not some green boy filled with lust, but a jarl at war. There will be time for that later... once she returns to you._

The Dragonborn’s cryptic words about what he should do should she not send word echoed unbidden in his head, and he tried his best to dispel them. But as Ulfric pulled his fur-lined robe around him to stave off the cold and trudged to the door leading upstairs, he couldn’t help but feel a strange, eerie sense of foreboding and fear – fear for the outcome of the war, fear of whatever nameless malevolence that haunted the Dragonborn, and most of all, of the safety of the woman that, despite his efforts, had somehow gained so much power over him.

And the most troubling part of that was that he didn’t seem to mind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs.


	29. Defend and Betray

“When I said that securing the Rift was absolutely imperative, I _wasn’t_ giving you leave to commandeer a few units of Stormcloaks and run off to take Fort Greenwall without a plan of action,” Galmar rebuked, glancing around at the shabby stone tower room that once housed the Imperial captain stationed at Fort Greenwall. “At the very least, you could have let me come along and crush a few legionnaires’ skulls.”

Kajsa, leaning back in her chair with her feet nonchalantly propped up on the map table, merely shrugged. “I had a battle plan that involved actions other than charging in head-on... which is why I knew you’d never agree with it.”

“For future reference, some notice would be nice before you decide to disregard my command and take over my post,” the general retorted, pulling up a rickety-looking chair by the crumbling hearth and sitting down in it. “I don’t tolerate insubordination on a regular basis.”

“One: I don't want your damn post,” she shot back. “And two: my plan _worked._ What remains of the Legion in the Rift is completely scattered, without coherent formation and nowhere safe to retreat. The Stormcloaks should be able to take over Ivarstead and Shor’s Stone and the other settlements in the Rift – not to mention Riften itself – without much resistance.”

Galmar scowled at her cogent rationale. “Maybe. But no more surprises, Red-Blade, and I mean it. You may be Ulfric’s favorite, but you’re still under my command and you’ll do what I damn well tell you.”

“Aren’t you even curious about what I did?” the Dragonborn asked archly, her eyes gleaming.

The general threw up his hands, exasperated. “Fine. Give me an account of the battle; I know you’re dying to.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Kajsa replied with a trace of sarcasm, holding out a bottle of mead. “Something to drink?”

“Of course.” He snatched the bottle, uncorked it, and took a deep swig. “Nothing like a good, strong drink to wake you up in the morning.”

“If you’re not an early riser, you wouldn’t have liked my maneuver much, anyway. We ambushed Fort Greenwall in the dead of night.”

Galmar nearly spit out his drink. “Explain to me how you justify _that_ as being less suicidal than just storming the fort?”

“Because it had a degree of subtlety that your plan decidedly lacked.” Kajsa ticked off the steps on her fingers. “We approached in near-silence, without any torches or anything else that might give us away. I had archers pick off the lookouts on the battlements and the guards at the entrances. Finally, we chopped up the barricades, used a makeshift battering ram to break down the wooden gates, and _then_ we charged in.”

“You still ended up using my plan in the end,” the general pointed out. “So why bother with all of the sneaking?”

“Yes, but the point of ‘bothering with all of the sneaking’ is that it lent itself well to a surprise attack. With the watchmen gone, the soldiers inside the fort were vulnerable to attack. By the time they were woken up by the noise of the gates being broken down, it was too late for them to do anything. As a result, the Stormcloaks took Fort Greenwall with minimal casualties.” She spread her arms out, as if challenging him to say anything further.

Galmar frowned, considering what she’d said. Then: “How in the name of Talos did you _not_ get kicked out of the Companions, let alone being made Harbinger?”

The Dragonborn smiled smugly at him. “Because even though my strategies offended their sense of honor, they still worked.”

The general chuckled. “You’re touched in the head, Red-Blade. Anyone ever told you that?”

“You wouldn’t be the first. Being the Dragonborn doesn’t exactly work wonders for one’s sanity.” _Or being the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild_ or _the former Listener of the Dark Brotherhood_ or _the Harbinger of the Companions_ or _a_ _Daedric Champion several times over..._

There was silence between them for a moment, broken only by the crackling of the meager fire and the steady dripping of a ceiling leak somewhere. Kajsa idly toyed with one of the few remaining red flags on the map beside her, the double one placed on the icon of Riften.

Noticing her fidgeting, Galmar finished his mead with a barely covered burp, plunking the bottle down on the table. “So, since you seem to specialize in crazy ideas, what’s your suggestion for dealing with the attack on Riften?”

Drumming her fingers on the table, the Dragonborn pursed her lips in thought. “Before we resort to taking over the city through force, I was thinking that I’d pay a visit to Maven Black-Briar: just to see if she’s seriously considering my suggestion now that the Stormcloaks are on her doorstep.”

The general snorted. “The day that Maven Black-Briar cuts off her ties to the Empire is the day that I’ll stop worshipping Talos. It’s not going to happen.”

“Perhaps, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to slip into Riften for an hour or two – just to confirm that that’s the case.”

After what seemed like an eternity, Galmar sighed. “Go ahead, then. If it absolutely _has_ to be done, I’m not going to be the one to deal with her.”

“All right.” Swinging her feet off the table, Kajsa rose from her seat. “If I’m not back by sundown, assume the negotiations have fallen through and attack.”

“‘Assume’?” the general scoffed. “No offense to your... _masterful negotiating prowess,_ but I’m counting on them to go badly.”

The Dragonborn smiled tightly. "Unfortunately, I share your optimism."

* * *

“I don’t know _why_ I even let you talk me into making that pathetic offer in the first place,” Maven huffed, sprawling into a low armchair by the roaring fireplace in her private rooms in Mistveil Keep.

Kajsa, now dressed in her Guildmaster’s leathers with Mehrunes’ Razor tucked into her belt, sipped her wine while casually leaning against one of the wooden columns that supported the ceiling. “Why, Maven, I had no idea that you wanted to abdicate your jarldom so soon.”

“It was decidedly more pleasant when Ulfric wasn’t breathing down my neck,” the Black-Briar matriarch snapped, her fingers clenching around the stem of her own goblet. “And even though the title is a rather empty formality, considering my position of power already, I have no desire to step down.”

“Then why not take the deal? You and I both know that Laila Law-Giver, though not entirely inept, was completely clueless about what went on in her own city.”

The Nord businesswoman laughed imperiously. “You must take me for a fool, Red-Blade. As Guildmaster and as a Stormcloak yourself, you are holding all of the cards, so to speak. You have everything to gain from me... _demeaning_ myself by swearing fealty to Jarl Ulfric.”

“There’s no need to be so melodramatic,” the Dragonborn scoffed. “You told me yourself that you admire individuals with power and charisma; surely you’re not denying that Jarl Ulfric has neither of those qualities.”

“You’d have to be daft to _not_ recognize those characteristics in him,” Maven grudgingly conceded, taking a delicate sip of her wine. “While the truth of the matter is that I believe he would make a much better High King than that dimwitted doll Elisif, therein lies the problem. Should he win the war and the Moot raises him to the throne, there’s a very good chance that he will endeavor to tarnish my family name through exposure of my... criminal ventures.”

 _As if the good name of the Black-Briars was completely spotless in the first place._ “But if you agree to support him now, there’s a good chance I’ll be able to talk him into overlooking your business dealings.”

“Only ‘a good chance,’ hmm?” The Black-Briar matriarch raised a questioning eyebrow. “Are you absolutely certain of this? I don’t set much store by shaky possibilities.”

“I know that,” Kajsa answered simply. “But if I was uncertain, I wouldn’t have even bothered in the first place.”

The Nord businesswoman chuckled darkly. “And that, Red-Blade, is why we get along so well. Unlike Mercer or Brynjolf, you don’t waste my precious time with drivel and excuses.”

Kajsa only smiled enigmatically and took another sip of her wine.

“However,” Maven continued, raising a finger, “if I cut off my ties to the Empire and swear fealty to Jarl Ulfric, I want something in return.”

“And what might that be?”

“I want Jarl Ulfric to accept my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

The Dragonborn nearly choked on her drink in surprise. “You wish for – for _Ingun_ to marry Jarl Ulfric?” she repeated, unsure if she'd heard that right.

“I only hope to create the best possible future for my daughter. Being the wife of a jarl – or, as it were, the future High King – would suit her station far more than being a mere _alchemist_.” The Black-Briar matriarch wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe that Jarl Ulfric will agree to it.”

“Oh?” Kajsa asked with a forced air of unconcern. “And why is that?”

“Because he turned her down three years ago and broke my poor Ingun’s heart for absolutely no reason at all.” The Nord businesswoman’s voice turned steely. “You’d expect that someone who proclaims himself to be a paragon of Nord manhood would at least keep his promises.”

The Dragonborn shrugged absently, trying to ignore the jealousy creeping up on her. _He’ll never agree to it... or at least, I don’t_ think _he will. Ingun Black-Briar_ – _over me?_ Her treacherous mind conjured up a vague recollection of a graceful, beautiful young woman with dark hair and bright amber eyes. _Even though she’s all the things I’m not..._

 _What are you thinking?_ she chided herself. _You’re no highborn lady, let alone someone who would be even remotely suitable to be a jarl’s wife_ – _even if you had any real interest in Ulfric Stormcloak beyond using him for your own purposes._

 _But what of_ his _interest in_ me? _Feigned, like mine? Or_ –

Unwilling to dwell on her vicious, envious thoughts any longer, Kajsa downed the rest of her wine, forcing herself not to gag on the strength of the drink. “I’ll see that your proposal is brought to Jarl Ulfric’s attention.” Placing the goblet down on the mantel, she turned to leave.

“Forgive me if I ask you one final question,” Maven called after her in a tone that did not speak of forgiveness, “but how can I be so sure that you’ll be willing to lose the man you love to my daughter, Red-Blade... or should I call you _Katarina of Solitude_?”

The Dragonborn froze in her tracks, her heart climbing into her throat. _I haven't heard that name since_ – 

“I may be aging unbecomingly, but I’m not blind,” the Black-Briar matriarch scoffed scathingly. “For someone who’s reputed to be impassive and emotionless, you are exceptionally terrible at hiding your feelings.” She laughed coldly. “But you’re not half bad at disguising yourself. I must admit, when that Justiciar showed me your old bounty poster, I nearly didn’t recognize you.”

Whipping around, Kajsa drew Mehrunes’ Razor in a flash and pointed it at the other’s throat, trying to keep her shaking hands steady. “Where is he?”

The Nord businesswoman smiled cruelly. “Not far.”

Almost immediately, the double doors behind her slammed against the wall with a sudden crash as a pair of Thalmor soldiers, clad in full elven armor and swords in hand, burst through the entryway and charged at her.

The Dragonborn reacted without thinking. “FUS – RO DAH!”

Both of them were thrown back into the wooden wall, crumpling to the ground as the sound of bones breaking sounded off the high ceiling. Kajsa almost smirked, but it died a moment later: the moment four more Thalmor soldiers virtually identical to their unfortunate predecessors marched through the doorway.

 _Oh, shit._ For once, Kajsa had a terrible, sinking feeling that the odds were not in her favor. _Maybe if I had the drop on them, maybe if I had my bow or the Ebony Blade... but they’re fully armed and armored_ – _and all that’s between some destruction magic and me are a couple of inches of leather. And I don’t even have the strength to use my_ thu’um _again..._

She took the only option that was available to her. In a split-second, she had whirled around and half-sprinted, half-staggered for the balcony doors, almost yanking them off their hinges as she threw them open and dashed outside.

“After her!” Maven shrieked, her command cut off by the _thunk_ of the doors shutting.

The balcony was only a simple stone porch with a low roof supported by square columns and surrounded by a squat wall. Hurrying to the nearest edge, the Dragonborn leaped on top of the edge, nearly lurching over it entirely, and took a quick glance below. One arm wrapped around the nearest column, head swimming, she realized that jumping down to Mistveil Keep’s wall would probably result in serious injury – at best.

 _Better death than who's behind me._ Sheathing Mehrunes’ Razor, she swung her legs over the edge, unhooked her arm from its support, and unsteadily pushed off.

Suddenly, her arms were nearly yanked out of her sockets as a pair of gauntleted hands grabbed her wrists, jerking her to an abrupt stop mid-fall. Gritting her teeth and craning her head upwards, Kajsa saw the glint of the elven gauntlets illuminated in the moonlight.

Desperately, she tried to summon a fireball or a bound weapon in her hands to try and make her pursuer let go of her, but her mind was clouded and foggy, the intense focus that she needed for magic evading her. _Dammit, why can’t I do this?_

Then the revelation hit her, cutting through her mental stupor. _The wine that Maven offered me... was it drugged? Oh, gods and Daedra, I am such an idiot..._

As if to confirm her suspicions, a wave of unimaginable pain ran through her. It felt as though she had suddenly gone boneless, all of her muscles dissolving into ravenous, devouring flames. She opened her mouth to scream herself hoarse, but the fire climbed up into her throat and consumed her voice as black splotches spun and danced across her vision.

Nearly insensible, completely mute in her agony, she almost didn’t feel herself being pulled up and over onto the balcony until her head and back cracked against the stone, sending stars spiraling in front of her eyes. With her last vestiges of strength, she flailed out at her captors, but she felt hands grabbing her limbs and holding her down.

The last thing the Dragonborn saw before she slipped into unconsciousness was a shadowy figure illuminated by the light from the open doorway, its golden eyes glinting in triumph.

* * *

Standing a ways off from the balcony door, arms crossed over her chest, a satisfied smile played over Maven Black-Briar’s lips. _I’ll have to thank my Ingun for brewing that poison for me. Of course, she needn’t know what it was used for; my daughter has some values that are quite peculiar when one considers the rest of my dear children._

The Thalmor soldier holding Kajsa down stepped away from the now-unmoving body. Another knelt down to fasten a gag over her mouth and slip a hood over her head, and then turned her over to tie her hands behind her back. Finally, the two remaining soldiers seized the unconscious Dragonborn by her forearms and, lifting her up partially, dragged her inside the jarl’s quarters and past Maven, their other comrades following behind and out the door.

 _Oh, how the mighty have fallen._ Now, upon seeing the great Dragonborn drugged senseless and arrested like a common criminal, the smirk fully settled on her face. _Pride comes before a fall... and it was only a matter of time before yours came, Guildmaster._

An even, crisp voice, like a blade shearing through silk, coolly interrupted her thoughts. “You seem quite pleased with yourself, Lady Black-Briar.”

Upon hearing her name, the Nord businesswoman turned around. The Justiciar was calmly standing at her shoulder, resplendent in the quietly opulent, metallic-trimmed robes of his station; his face was hidden in the shadow of his pointed hood.

Her smirk turned into something resembling a polite smile. “Of course I am, Justiciar Orthorien. Red-Blade, as I know her by, has been a thorn in my side for far too long.”

“Then why did _she_ become Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild rather than someone of your own choosing?” His tone was somewhat amused, but with a cutting edge. “Unless you lacked the authority to do so...”

“Unfortunately, I cannot control everything the Thieves Guild does,” the Black-Briar matriarch snapped. “Mercer Frey may have been a traitor to the Guild, but at least he complied with my wishes instead of going behind my back to carry out covert missions that would have lead to my authority being challenged.” Her lips tightened in disapproval. “Sometimes, I wish that Frey had succeeded in killing her. He had cause to detest her, for whatever reason of his own, and now I do as well.”

“Perhaps it was not just about hate,” Orthorien suggested lightly, “and there was something of fear in his actions as well. Fear is just as powerful a motivator as hate, and the two are often intertwined.” His voice lowered to a sinister purr. “Are _you_ afraid of Katarina, Lady Black-Briar?”

 _Maven Black-Briar,_ afraid? _The audacity of him!_ “Of course not –!”

“Or perhaps what she stood for, the undermining of your role in the business of the Guild and in the politics of Skyrim?” he interrupted smoothly. “I imagine that for a woman of your station, someone upsetting the status quo that you put in place would be quite troubling to you.”

“There’s a reason that Riften is the way it is,” she retorted tartly. “The strong and the ambitious seize power and hold sway over the weak and the lazy. It’s the way it’s always been, and I’m sure you would agree with me when I say that it’s the way it always should be.”

“Well said, Lady Black-Briar.” She could almost hear the smile of assent in his voice. “But you neglected to mention that those in power must take steps to ensure continuity of their rule, which means rooting out and making an example of those who would create chaos out of order...”

“Of course,” she agreed quickly.

“... as well as those who forget their place.” His approving tone was replaced by one that was cold and harsh and utterly unforgiving. “Those who foolishly seek to rise beyond their station with wealth and flattering words and attempts to gain favor. Those such as you, Lady Black-Briar.”

Suddenly, a flash of silver streaked across her view as the razor-sharp blade of a dagger slashed across her throat. Letting out a strangled gasp of surprise, Maven clapped both hands to the wound, feeling warm blood pulse out between her fingers as she collapsed to the floor. She heard the clatter of the weapon that had mortally wounded her on the floor beside her as the Justiciar casually tossed it aside, but could not summon the strength or spare the hands to grab it.

“Thank you once again for your cooperation, Lady Black-Briar,” the cool voice of Orthorien came from above her, fading towards the doorway alongside his precise footsteps. “The capture of Katarina and your death will prove most beneficial for our aims – much more so, I daresay, then when you were alive.”

The double doors to the jarl’s quarters clicked shut, and Maven surrendered to the rapidly encroaching darkness behind her eyelids as her lifeblood pooled on the floorboards around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know: I'm evil. :) But I'm working on the next chapter, so it should be posted soon.
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	30. The Damage That Daggers Do

_He could see her figure illuminated by the soft glow of the fireplace, her back to him. Smiling to himself, Ulfric quietly walked over the floor of his bedroom to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him._

_Kajsa turned around to face him, her hips shifting sensuously against his. Her hands creeping up to his shoulders as she met his eyes and smiled; the firelight flickering over her face left her half in light and half in shadow, lending a strange mystery to her gaze. “My jarl,” she murmured._

_It was enough of an invitation for him. The jarl kissed her fiercely, one hand undoing the tie of her heavy, fur-lined robe and then slipping beneath it and finding the curve of her waist. Despite the fire, her bare skin was strangely cold_

_“Let me warm you,” he whispered against her lips. His hands slid around her waist, caressing her back – and finding raised scars._

_The Dragonborn gasped, as if she’d been stabbed, and she jerked away from him instantly. She made to flee, but an equally startled Ulfric grasped a handful of her robe and attempted to drag her back to him. Kajsa struggled to free herself, but the back of the garment fell away and revealed her back in the flickering light from the hearth._

_Her skin was fraught with long, thin whip scars, slashing across the skin in a criss-crossing pattern that marred the flesh indelibly. At the base of her spine, the ugly mark of a brand in the shape of an upright hammer, carved with runes, seemed to blaze in the firelight as though it were new._

_Shocked, the jarl lifted his eyes to Kajsa’s dark eyes. They were empty of emotion, hollowed out by sadness, terror – and a naked shame._

_“You were never meant to see,” she whispered, her voice breaking as the shadows swallowed her up._

Eyes snapping open, Ulfric woke with a start, jolting upright in bed. Glancing down, he realized that his fists were clenched around his blankets, as if to rip them apart, and he forcibly unclenched them. After a moment, he turned his head, his breathing still ragged and unsteady.

The hearth was cold. No one was there.

 _A dream... turned nightmare._ The jarl fell back on his bed and let his eyelids droop shut out of weariness. _That was all it was. That was all..._

The staccato knocking at his bedroom door unceremoniously jerked him out of half-sleep. Opening his eyes slightly and groggily sitting up in bed again, Ulfric groaned and rubbed his forehead, pushing his tangled hair back from his face. “Who is it?” _Kajsa... is it you?_

“Jorleif, my jarl. I have a message for you from Galmar.”

Despite his disappointment, _that_ got his attention. “Come in, then.”

His steward hesitantly entered the room, a folded and sealed piece of parchment in one hand. He frowned in confusion at Ulfric as he held out the missive to his master. “Are you quite all right, my jarl? It’s not like you to sleep late.”

The jarl shrugged tiredly. “It has been a rough ni – a rough couple of nights.” He took the proffered letter without getting out of bed. “Why are you bringing me this instead of Irmin? Last time I checked, I was paying _him_ to be a courier.”

“He’s delivering your letter to Jarl Skald of Dawnstar, as per your orders. Do you not remember sending him out last night?”

Ulfric sighed and massaged his temples with his free hand. “Of course. Forgive me, Jorleif; I am exhausted.” _There’s more on my mind than just the war._ “Has the Dragonborn come to the palace yet?”

“No, my jarl. I can see if she’s at home yet –”

The jarl waved his offer away. _She is not back yet. Why would she be?_ “That is not necessary. Thank you for bringing this to me.”

Jorleif bowed quickly and hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Picking the seal off, Ulfric unfolded the letter and read it:

> _Ulfric,_
> 
> _I’m thinking that there might have been a reason other than an invasion that caused Tullius to send troops to the Rift, because the Imperials that we fought against were few and far between. We were able to take Fort Greenwall without much of a fight, and then we all marched on Riften, which didn’t prove an issue either. Add in us driving out the remaining Imperials from the towns and settlements, and the Rift is ours now._
> 
> _But enough of my yammering. Point is, you’d better get down here as soon as possible and as quietly as possible. We’ve got a bit of an issue down here that I’m thinking you should deal with._
> 
> _Galmar_

Frowning, he went back over it again. His first instinct upon finishing was that the letter was a forgery of some sort, but he recognized Galmar’s jerky scratches that constituted his handwriting, ones that even an expert forger would be hard-pressed to duplicate. _However, Galmar has never asked me to join him in the field before now... What could this “issue” that he speaks of possibly be?_

 _Something to do with Maven Black-Briar, perhaps? Yes,_ that _would_ _make sense._ The jarl reread it again, and then for a fourth time, but could not discern any more clues as to whether he was correct or not.

 _Whatever it is, I should heed Galmar’s advice and get down to Riften as soon as I can._ Finally refolding the letter and placing it on his nightstand, he dragged the blankets back and pushed himself out of bed without a backwards glance at the fireplace.

* * *

Brilliant early-autumn leaves in shades of orange, yellow, and red cloaked the branches of the birch trees that flanked the road and grew up beside the wooden watchtowers that heralded the gates of Riften. From a passing glance from the back of his grey stallion, Ulfric could tell with some relief that the men keeping watch from the towers were in Stormcloak colors.

Even if they had been legionnaires, it was doubtful that they’d recognize him. The jarl had forsaken his usual fine clothing for more inconspicuous garb: trousers and a tunic cut from durable, comfortable cloth under a simple, fur-lined robe. In the event of trouble, his war axe rested on one hip and Queen Freydis’ sword on the other, and two Stormcloaks – out of their distinctive cuirasses and in leather armor – trailed him on horseback. By now, he was fairly convinced that Galmar’s message was no forgery, but he reminded himself that it never hurt to be prepared.

The squat stone walls that cradled the gates into Riften loomed up in front of him. Dismounting from his horse, Ulfric motioned for his guards to do the same, and they obeyed.

“Shall I take our horses to the stable?” one of them asked, deliberately avoiding the use of his title, just in case.

The jarl nodded, and the Stormcloak took the reins of their horses and began carefully leading them off towards the cluster of wooden buildings to the right of the gates. With the other guard on his tail, Ulfric strode up to the low stone archway that overshadowed the gates – except that there were no gates, only a gaping hole where they used to be that was blocked off with crude barricades.

The lone Stormcloak soldier on duty looked up, his eyes sparking with sudden recognition. “Jarl Ulfric.” He placed his right fist over his heart and bowed his head in a quick salute.

To his slight surprise, the jarl identified him as well. “Ralof of Riverwood. It is good to see you again.”

Ralof smiled, but there was an odd tightness about it. “Galmar has instructed me to escort you to Mistveil Keep.”

 _So it_ is _about Maven Black-Briar after all..._ “Lead the way, soldier.”

The Stormcloak nodded at the soldier following him, and the latter took Ralof’s place at watch as the former knelt down and shifted the barricades slightly so that Ulfric could pass through without much trouble. As soon as the jarl had done so, Ralof moved them back and then straightened up.

“Were the gates knocked down during the assault?” Ulfric asked.

“Aye. The battering ram took them right off their hinges.”

The pair of them emerged onto one of the main cobblestone streets of Riften and started down it. Glancing around him at the two-story buildings built of rough-hewn logs with shingled roofs that were characteristic of the city, the barrels stacked up outside doors, and the sundry brush that grew wild by the side of the street, and smelling the prevalent smell of fish and dampness, the jarl saw that it hadn’t changed much. _And under the Black-Briars, it likely never will._

“I’d never been here before I joined the army,” Ralof said idly as they crossed over one of the wooden bridges that spanned the canals. “But then again, I hadn’t been many places outside Whiterun Hold before I joined the army.”

Ulfric laughed good-naturedly. “And does the City of Thieves live up to its reputation?”

The Stormcloak shrugged in response. “I haven’t been here long enough to find out, and I’d rather not.” He skirted the waist-high stone wall that enclosed the marketplace and motioned for his superior to follow him. “The keep’s this way.”

* * *

The main hall of Mistveil Keep was a far cry from its imposing, cold stone exterior, with a high, airy ceiling and wooden floors and walls; the latter was nearly covered with the purple and gold banners of Riften. Wide, long tables laden with food surrounded a crackling fire pit in the very center. At the far end, where the stone walls of the keep were especially noticeable, lay the dais with the jarl’s throne on it – and it was here that Ulfric’s attention was directed towards.

Jarl Laila Law-Giver, the current occupant of the throne, was imperiously glaring at a stocky figure in Stormcloak officer’s garb that could only be Galmar. “General, when will I be able to regain use of my personal quarters?”

“I don’t bloody know, woman!” Galmar retorted. “It all depends on when Jarl Ulfric arrives!”

“Well, if he wants to see the corpse of that hideous woman, he can view it in the Hall of the Dead,” the Jarl of Riften shot back icily. “There is absolutely no need for it to foul up my rooms!”

Ralof winced. “It seems like the argument has escalated a bit since I was last here. I’d rather not get in the middle of this, if you don’t mind.”

Nodding in assent, Ulfric strode forward towards the bickering pair. As he drew closer, he noticed another group huddled by the throne: a red-eyed, sniffling Ingun Black-Briar clutching the arm of an uncertain-looking Hemming, while a scowling, dark-haired man in steel armor ( _Maven’s bodyguard, I believe,_ he recalled) hovered by both siblings.

Jarl Laila noticed him first, and she rose and curtseyed respectfully. “Jarl Ulfric. We – or rather, the general –” this was accompanied with a frigid look at Galmar “– have been waiting for you for some time now.”

“I received Galmar’s missive and rode out from Windhelm at first light,” he explained shortly. “What is going on?”

It was Ingun who, letting go of her brother and drifting over to his side, answered in the silence, stumbling over her words. “It’s – it’s my – my mother. She’s dead – _murdered_ –” Her voice choked, and she buried her face in her hands as she began crying again.

Feeling some measure of pity for the distraught young woman, the jarl patted her on the back a few times before glancing at Galmar, expecting further information.

This time, it was Jarl Laila who jumped in. “I’d just been released from my cell in the city jail by your Stormcloaks and was about to be reinstated as jarl. Unfortunately, Maven Black-Briar was nowhere to be found, so the general could not strip her of her ill-gotten title first, but rather deployed men throughout the city to find her. I proceeded up to my quarters to wait and –” Her face turned a bit pale at the memory, and her voice trailed off.

“She was lying dead on the floor in a pool of her own blood,” Galmar finished bluntly. “Someone had cut her throat.”

Ingun began sobbing anew, and Hemming silently grasped her by the arm and led her away, with their bodyguard following close behind. The three of them brushed past Ralof and left the main hall without another word, the doors slamming shut behind them.

“Do we know who the killer is?” Ulfric asked. “I believe you will agree with me when I say I would like to shake their hand.”

The Jarl of Riften smiled shakily at that, but shook her head. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Actually...” his housecarl raised a finger to cut in. “We do. Or rather, _I_ do.”

Two heads turned towards him out of curiosity and confusion.

“Ralof and I took the liberty of looking at the scene of the crime,” Galmar continued, almost puffing up with satisfaction. “We found two goblets – one empty and the other still fairly full of wine – which indicates that the late Lady Black-Briar knew her killer well enough to invite her over for drinks. Unfortunately for Maven, her killer was planning on spicing up the wine a little.” From the coin purse on the belt of his armor, he drew out an empty glass vial and held it up. “This most likely contained poison.”

Jarl Laila leaned forward out of morbid interest. “So the killer drugged Lady Black-Briar and then murdered her?”

Brow furrowed, the Jarl of Windhelm interrupted. “Galmar, you refer to the killer as a ‘her.’ Why is that?”

“I say that because the average murderess usually favors poison over going blade-to-blade with someone. Besides, I found this lying by Maven’s body.” From his belt, his housecarl produced an elegant dagger and handed it over. “It’s probably the murder weapon; there was quite a bit of blood on it before I cleaned it off.”

Ulfric scrutinized it closely. The dagger’s blade appeared to be made of silver or highly polished steel, with a round black stone set in the pommel and a pointed crossguard. For some reason, it seemed very familiar.

Then it hit him. _I know where I have seen this._ “This is Kajsa’s dagger.”

Galmar nodded grimly. “Before we besieged Riften, she requested permission to go into the city and try and convince the then Jarl Black-Briar to surrender and swear fealty to you.” He laughed humorlessly. “She said that if she wasn’t back by sundown, I should assume that the negotiations had fallen through and proceed to attack. I suppose that they really did end badly.”

A sudden, foreboding feeling prickled along his skin. _I have not seen her yet today – and she was not mentioned in Galmar’s letter._ “Where is the Dragonborn?”

His housecarl hesitated for a moment before responding. “I don’t know. She left for the negotiations and I haven’t seen her since.” He shrugged. “Knowing her, it’s not exactly unusual, but she might turn up yet.”

The jarl swallowed, using all his willpower to keep himself impassive, to keep himself from remembering the nightmare he’d woken from. _She is missing. Something_ has _happened to her... just as she suspected._

Unbidden, some of her last words to him echoed back in his head: ... _there’s a very high chance that the solution to my – my_ problem _lies in the Rift already. If I succeed in resolving it, then you won’t have to resort to my plan. But if not..._

... _if you don’t hear word from me after we’ve taken back the Rift, go to Riften. At the Bee and Barb, ask for Sapphire. When you find her, tell her this..._

“The daggers in men’s smiles will turn unto their hearts,” he murmured. _Did she know she would murder Maven when she told me that? Why? I need answers, and she is the only one who can give them to me._

Tightening his jaw, he knew what he had to do.

“Thank you for informing me of this,” he thanked them both abruptly, “but I am afraid I have other matters to attend to.” With that, Ulfric turned around and strode the length of the hall, pulled open one of the double doors, and emerged into the cool afternoon air of Riften.

Halfway down the curving stone steps, the door finally banged shut as Galmar rushed out behind him and grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to a halt. “What in the name of Talos are you doing?”

“It is... complicated.” Only after the words were out of his mouth did he realize how much that sounded like something Kajsa would say. _The longer I’m around that woman, the more she influences me..._

The other man huffed. “Give me the _less_ complicated version.”

“Before the Dragonborn left for the Rift, she gave me instructions on what to do if she vanished. And now, I must carry them out.” Brushing off his housecarl’s hand from his shoulder, the jarl finished going down the steps.

Galmar caught up with him just outside the walls and stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Hold up. You’re jumping to conclusions. How do you know whether she’s _really_ missing or has just waltzed off without giving you notification?”

“She told me that she would send word after taking the Rift,” Ulfric said firmly, dodging around him. “And she has not, thus –” He stopped in his tracks.

The small footbridge ahead of them was completely deserted, save for two people. One, a Redguard man in patched work clothing, sat on a low bench, body tense and fists clenched in desperation. The other, a brunette Nord woman in a sleeveless Thieves Guild cuirass, seemed as calm as the other was stressed; she casually leaned against the railing, arms loosely crossed over her chest. There were a few people that had been intent on crossing the bridge, but upon seeing the pair, they hastily changed course so as to avoid them.

“I’m really getting tired of your excuses,” she was saying, her condemning tone at odds with her cool facade. “When you borrowed the money, you said you’d pay it back on time and for double the usual fee.”

“I know I did, Sapphire,” the young man said desperately. “But how was I to know the shipment would get robbed?”

Ulfric recognized the name: the contact that Kajsa had told him to find in the event of her disappearance. _Of_ course _the Guild would be involved..._

“Next time, keep your plans quieter and nothing would have happened to it,” the thief shot back brusquely, straightening up and making to walk away.

“What? Are you telling me that – that _you_ robbed it?” By now, the Redguard looked absolutely distraught, almost hysterical. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

Sapphire whirled around, sharply grabbing him by the collar and forcing him to meet her eyes. “Listen, Shadr. Last warning. Pay up – or else.” She let go of his clothing, leaving him rubbing his neck and gasping for breath. “All I care about is the gold. Everything else is _your_ problem.”

“Sapphire –” Shadr wailed pleadingly. “ _Please_ – please don’t do this to me...”

She cut him off abruptly, pointing a threatening finger at him. “You may have been able to avoid paying off your debts before, but I’m going to be hounding you until you give me that coin. And trust me: I can make your life absolutely miserable until then.”

“But – but you don’t understand –”

“The only thing I don’t understand is the way you act like you have a say in this – because you don’t. Got it? Good.” Glowering fiercely, Sapphire turned away, leaving the despairing Redguard on the bridge.

Before she could stalk away, Ulfric approached her. “Sapphire, is it?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” she said coolly. “I don’t have any business with you, so get out of my face.” She kept walking.

Not put off by her hostility, the jarl kept pace with her easily. “And you work for the Guild?”

“Who’s asking?” she snapped.

“Show a little respect to the Jarl of Windhelm, _thief_ ,” Galmar growled.

“You’re saying _he’s_ the infamous Ulfric Stormcloak?” The Nord woman snorted. “Right. Tell me the one about the kindly troll that gives presents to good little boys and girls.”

Ulfric gritted his teeth and tried again. “Your Guildmaster bade me to find you and –”

“Look,” Sapphire interjected, crossing her arms again and narrowing her eyes, “I don’t know who you are or what you want with me, so why don’t you just fuck off?”

“Impertinent little –!” Galmar lunged at her, ready to strangle the thief.

“Enough of this!” The jarl pushed his housecarl back and then grabbed the Nord woman by the arm to keep her in place. “I come with a message from your Guildmaster: ‘the daggers in men’s smiles will turn unto their hearts.’”

The change in her demeanor was immediate. Sapphire went white with shock, her eyes wide. “Kajsa – the Guildmaster – she told you – she told you to say _that_?”.

Ulfric nodded curtly. “You know what it means?”

“Yes.” She tugged her arm free of his grip, but made no move to run. “It’s part of a system of codes that she laid down after she became Guildmaster. That phrase – it’s –” she swallowed “– it’s a sign of distress, one of the most serious we have.”

Galmar glanced back and forth at both of them in confusion and consternation, but kept his mouth shut.

The thief scrutinized the jarl’s face with a slightly embarrassed look on her own. “You – you really are Ulfric Stormcloak. I suppose Brynjolf wasn’t kidding after all.” She sobered. “What do you want?”

“Directions to the Ragged Flagon,” Ulfric answered, relieved that she was being more cooperative. “I need to speak with some people in your outfit.” _Perhaps then I will be able to shed some light on this. Perhaps Kajsa will be waiting there._

Sapphire nodded. “Fine,” she said, subdued. “Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a two-parter, so they'll be posted together for additional "fun".
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	31. Words With Thieves (Part I)

One hand groping along the wet, slimy wall to guide himself, Ulfric struggled to see in the near-blackness of the narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel – but at the same time, he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to see his surroundings. From the occasional sputtering torch on the wall, he could only catch glimpses of the passageway ahead of them and the doorways that signaled other branching corridors. Something was dripping from the ceiling with slow, steady _plinks_ , and the uneven floor was dotted with puddles of whatever the mysterious liquid was; a few times, the jarl thought he heard skeevers skittering around in the darkness and his skin crawled despite himself.

From behind him, Galmar broke the silence. “How long until we get there?”

“Not long now,” Sapphire replied from ahead; even when lowered, her brassy voice echoed easily. “It should be up ahead soon. I haven’t taken this route in a while, so it’s hard to gauge.”

Ulfric could almost hear Galmar’s brow furrowing in his customary frown. “Do you mean to say there’s another way in?”

“Only for members of the Guild. If that Mjoll and the rest of her little band of crusaders knew about it, we’d be flushed out within an hour.” The thief ducked down to fit through an especially cramped tunnel. “Just quit whining and think of it as a little test.”

Following her up into a tiny, square room with dirt and filthy straw scattered on the floor and ringed with entrances to other passages, Ulfric straightened up, only slightly more grateful now that he could see. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone who wants to join the Thieves Guild has to navigate the Ratway first. Our little rite of passage.” She snorted in some semblance of a laugh. “The Guildmaster may trust you, but the Guild is far from doing so. If you’re willing to crawl through this dump like the rest of us all did once, it might help your case.”

Galmar remained skeptical. “Or it’ll just make us smell like shit.”

“Too late for that.” Going to one of the doorways and descending the short flight of steep stairs that lay beyond it, the Nord woman opened a studded wooden door. “Here we are.”

“About time.” The housecarl elbowed past the people ahead of him and through the doorway. “I could use a drink right now.”

Sapphire rolled her eyes in exasperation, but tramped after him. Despite his tension, Ulfric smiled to himself as he followed her, reaching behind him to shut the door after he passed over the threshold.

The three of them were standing at the edge of a dark, circular chamber with a low ceiling supported by stone arches, the space itself housing a cistern filled with dark, stagnant water. The lighting here wasn’t much better than it had been in the Ratway; the only illumination came from a few scattered braziers and the round skylight over the water. Across the way, the jarl could see a wooden dock, supported with wooden beams and rigged up with ropes to keep it afloat, extending into the cistern, as well as walkways that connected it and the stone floor and, beside one of these, the small hanging sign that bore the Ragged Flagon’s name.

“This way.” The thief skirted the edge of the dank pool and began up one of the walkways with Ulfric and Galmar following her.

“Hold it.” A burly Nord man with dirty blonde muttonchops and a deeply disapproving scowl on his face stepped into their path. He was clad in leather armor that displayed his bulging biceps as he crossed his arms stubbornly. “Sapphire, who are these people?”

The other sighed irritably. “They’re with me, Dirge. Let me pass.”

“I don’t know them. Are they here to make trouble?” He narrowed his eyes at the other two, sizing them up suspiciously.

“Hopefully not,” Sapphire muttered under her breath before addressing the bouncer directly. “Now’s not the time for being threatening, Dirge. Let me in, or you’ll have the Second and the rest of the Senior Operatives to answer to.”

“They don’t mind me watching the place. They _pay_ me to be threatening.”

Ulfric decided to take matters into his own hands. “We are here to speak with some of your associates,” he said authoritatively, stepping forward and looking Dirge straight in the eye. “It concerns a matter of great importance, so it would be helpful if you could stand aside.”

The bouncer blinked in surprise, half out of being challenged and half out of recognition. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look awfully familiar.”

“’Course ‘e does,” came an accented, slightly nasally voice from behind Dirge. “That’s Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Wind’elm.”

The bouncer whipped his head around towards the source of the voice and then back at the jarl. His narrowed eyes widened as his hand flew to the handle of his steel war axe.

“Oh, ‘nuff of that, Dirge,” the unknown speaker said dismissively. “Let ‘im an’ ‘is friend in.”

“Fine,” Dirge muttered grudgingly, shuffling over to one side of the walkway and revealing the owner of the voice: a short, paunchy Breton man with a balding head and a close-shaved blonde goatee, dressed in black Guild leathers.

“Thanks for that, Del,” Sapphire said, relieved.

“No problem, luv. All I wanna know is ‘ow you ended up wi’ these characters in our neck of the woods – or our part of the sewer, anyway.” He chuckled at his own joke and gestured for them to proceed onwards. “Come on in an’ sit down.”

Following him to a circular table strewn with papers and bottles of mead with a few carved chairs around it, Ulfric pulled out one of the chairs to seat himself and surveyed the Ragged Flagon. There were a few other tables and chairs scattered about the bar, as well as some out on the dock over the cistern waters. A single chandelier hung from the sloping ceiling, casting shadows on the stacks of barrels and crates that bordered the bar.

Aside from Sapphire, the standoffish bouncer ( _Dirge,_ he reminded himself, unsure of whether it was a nickname or not), and the thief whose name he hadn’t caught yet, there were three other people loitering in the Ragged Flagon. A rangy Redguard woman with her thick black hair pulled back in a tight bun sat at the bar, chatting quietly with the barkeep, a wiry Nord man with pale brown hair and a thin mustache. A petite, pale Imperial woman who would have been more attractive if not for the pinched, disdainful expression on her face leaned against a barrel with her arms crossed over her chest. All three of them stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the newcomers, eyes wary and distrustful.

Hastily rearranging his loose papers into a messy stack and using a half-empty mead bottle as a paperweight, the Breton sat across from him. “Allow me to introduce myself: Delvin Mallory, expert obtainer of goods.” He extended his hand and, remembering the name from Kajsa’s instructions, the jarl shook it with only a moment of hesitation.

Galmar, now seated as well, went for the less tactful approach. “You mean you’re a fence, then,” he said with no small amount of disdain.

Delvin guffawed. “No beatin’ ‘round the bush with you, eh? I’ll be sure to not try an’ hide be’ind fancy words with you, then.” Folding his hands on the tabletop, he turned his attention to Ulfric, smiling genially. “What brings the Jarl of Wind’elm to our ‘ome sweet sewer? If you’re lookin’ for our lovely Guildmaster, she en’t here.”

The jarl swallowed. “I _am_ here about Kajsa,” he said slowly. “She asked me to speak with you and some of your associates here in the Ragged Flagon... if she should happen to disappear.”

The fence’s smile faded, and he glanced sharply up at Sapphire, who was still hovering by the table, for confirmation.

She nodded. “She gave him the passphrase, Del. You know which one.”

“’Course I do.” Lowering his eyes to the table, the Breton thief fell silent, twiddling his fingers in an oddly contemplative gesture. Then: “Who did Kajsa tell you to meet with?”

By now, Ulfric knew their names by heart. “Yourself, Brynjolf, and two others: Vex and Karliah.”

Delvin smiled wryly, briefly. “Usual suspects, then. Sapphire –” he raised his head again to address the other thief “– be a dear an’ go get Bryn an’ Karliah. Tell ‘em it’s urgent.”

“Where are they?”

“Last I saw, they was back in the Cistern. Shouldn’t be too ‘ard to find ‘em.”

Turning on her heel, but not quickly enough to disguise the worry on her face, the Nord woman strode away and vanished into the back room of the Ragged Flagon.

The fence glanced over at Galmar, who had been eyeing an unopened bottle of Nord mead sitting on the table. “Go a’ead. Take it, but be prepared to pay later. Vekel don’t like us givin’ out ‘andouts to non-Guild members.”

“Or Guild members who haven’t paid their tab yet, _Mallory,_ ” the barkeep interjected with a meaningful look.

“Oh, don’t get your smalls in a twist, Vekel,” the Breton thief dismissed flippantly. “I’ll pay you back with that case of Firebrand Wine comin’ in from Solitude on Tirdas.”

“Are you absolutely sure that it’s _wine_ you’ll be getting, Vekel?” the Imperial woman called, sauntering over to their table with a taunting smirk on her lips.

Delvin groaned, throwing his hands up in the air with mock exasperation. “What other tradable commodity could possibly sound like ‘wine’?”

“I’m sure you could think of something.” She sat on the edge of the table, crossing one leg over the other. “Your hearing isn’t what it used to be, old man.”

The fence assumed a hurt expression, clapping one hand to his heart. “‘Old man’?” You wound me, luv.”

She shrugged. “The truth hurts. I suppose you really have gone soft in your... _advanced age._ ”

Ulfric watched this exchange disbelievingly, wondering exactly who this brazen woman was and trying not to think about how her scathing manner reminded him of Kajsa. Galmar, now nursing his bottle of Nord mead, was viewing this as well, though the jarl suspected that he was more interested in the fact that there was a rather attractive young woman in form-fitting leathers sitting on the table not a foot from him.

The Breton thief seemed to read his thoughts. “Where are my manners? There’s introductions that need sayin’.” He gestured to the Imperial woman. “This charmin’ lady is Vex: professional infiltrator, master of pickin’ locks, an’ breaker of ‘earts.”

“Shut it, Mallory,” Vex interrupted, suddenly peering at Ulfric and Galmar in disbelief. “Are they who I think they – aigh!” Her incredulous question was abruptly cut off in an indignant squawk as Delvin’s arm snaked around her waist, yanking her off the table and squarely into his lap.

The fence chuckled heartily at her shock. “Oh, I’ve learned a thing or two in my ‘advanced age,’ luv – an’ I’m anythin’ _but_ ‘soft.’” He patted her thigh with his free hand, still keeping his arm tightly wrapped around her. “Checkmate.”

“Lecherous old codger,” the infiltrator spat, untangling herself from his grip and struggling to her feet, pushing him away. “Keep it in your pants and answer my question: who are _they_?” Her last word was punctuated by jabbing a finger towards Ulfric and Galmar.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Wind’elm and...” The Breton thief’s voice trailed off as he regarded Galmar. “‘Ousecarl, right?”

“And general,” the other added under his breath, not bothering to give his name.

The Imperial thief raised one pale eyebrow at the jarl. “So _this_ is the notorious ‘killer of kings’ that our Guildmaster is shacking up with? Somehow, I thought he’d be taller.”

Ulfric suppressed the urge to snap back at her and instead addressed the fence. “Where are your other associates?”

“Should be on their way if they’ve finally stopped their yammerin’ about this damned business with Maven.” Delvin shook his head. “I realize that there was prob’ly no love lost between you an’ her, but Bryn’s bein’ a good, concerned Second and worryin’ ‘is little ginger ‘ead over the implications for the Guild. ‘Opefully, Karliah’s managed to talk some sense into ‘im.”

Before the jarl could inquire further, there was the sound of a door slamming from deep within the back room. A few seconds later, a weary-looking Brynjolf emerged, quietly followed by another: a slim, graceful Dunmer woman with grave violet eyes and straight, shoulder-length hair of deepest brown.

“You look like you need a drink, Bryn,” the fence observed.

“Gods, yes.” The Nord thief pulled up a chair from another table and sprawled in it, raking his hair back from his face. “You have no idea how trying this day’s been.”

“From the way you’ve been bitching and moaning about ‘luck finally running dry’ and ‘where in Oblivion are we going to snag another full-time patron?’ all morning and all afternoon, I think we’ve got a pretty good idea,” Vex commented sarcastically.

The Second nearly cracked a smile as he helped himself to one of the unopened mead bottles, but sobered again as he turned his head around and raised his voice. “Vekel, Tonilia, Dirge: mind going into the Cistern for a bit?” He inclined his head towards Ulfric and Galmar. “Private business, here.”

The barkeep and the thief he’d been talking to stopped what they were doing, silently left the bar, and exited into the back room. After a parting scowl at Ulfric and Galmar, Dirge followed them, leaving the Ragged Flagon empty of extraneous people.

Brynjolf sighed tiredly and pulled out two free chairs for the still-standing women. “Sit down, you two.”

Vex slouched down into her seat, while the Dunmer ( _Karliah, I assume,_ the jarl thought) perched on the edge of hers after a moment of hesitation.

“Now,” the Nord thief continued, facing Ulfric, “I think some explanation is required of you. First of all –” he uncorked his mead with a decisive _pop_ “– how in the name of Nocturnal did you get that passphrase?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other half of this chapter will be posted in 3... 2... 1...


	32. Words With Thieves (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And here it is!

“Kajsa gave it to me as part of a set of instructions,” Ulfric said tersely.

The furrow in Brynjolf’s brow grew even deeper. “What were the instructions?”

“I was to find Sapphire, give her the passphrase, and ask for directions to the Ragged Flagon. Upon arrival, I was to meet with and ask you four a question.” _And presumably, the answer would lead me to wherever she vanished to._

“Well, what’s the question?” Vex interrupted.

“All in good time, lass. _I’m_ the one asking the questions here,” the Second interjected sternly before turning back to Ulfric. “Was there a particular reason that our Guildmaster gave you those instructions?”

The jarl hesitated. “It is... complicated.”

“We thrive on ‘complica’ed,’” Delvin put in.

“No more interruptions from you either, Del,” the Nord thief admonished, and then addressed the jarl again. “I suppose we can talk about that later. Now, Jarl Ulfric: what was the question?”

“Kajsa told me to ask you who darkened the door of Vlindrel Hall.” The foreign name sounded strange on his tongue; he still had no idea what it was.

Karliah gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “Shadows preserve us,” she murmured fearfully.

Brynjolf’s face was even graver than before. “Are you absolutely sure that she said that?”

“Of course I am,” Ulfric snapped. “What in Oblivion is Vlindrel Hall?”

“It’s Kajsa’s home in Markarth – or rather, her _former_ home,” Karliah answered; her voice was so soft and low, the jarl had to strain his ears to hear her. “Upon becoming Guildmaster, she repurposed it into a safe house for Thieves Guild members on jobs in the city.” She glanced over at the others. “Shall I tell him –?”

“Go ahead,” the Second said quietly, looking down into his mead. Vex and Delvin both nodded assent.

The Dunmer thief faced the jarl and began. “About a month ago, I was taking care of a few jobs in Markarth. I was looking for a place to spend the night, so I decided to go to Vlindrel Hall. But when I arrived, I found that – that someone was already there.” She swallowed. “A Thalmor assassination squad. A Justiciar and two soldiers.”

The jarl’s heart stopped. _The Thalmor came looking for Kajsa? To what end?_ “What next?” he demanded urgently.

“I incapacitatedthem and attempted to question them, but I couldn’t gain much information.” She was talking faster now, obviously agitated. “However, I searched the Justiciar’s robes before I hid the bodies, and I found a note and a dagger wrapped in cloth.”

“Do you have them with you?” Ulfric asked.

Karliah shook her head. “I gave them to Kajsa when I met with her to tell her of this; I believe it was after she returned from the campaign in Falkreath. I – I asked her what the Guild should do, and – and –” she let out a shuddering breath “– she told us not to get involved until she said otherwise.”

“And you didn’t help her anyway?” His voice came out harsher than he intended.

“Believe me, Jarl Ulfric, I tried to convince her, but she would have none of it!” the Dunmer thief protested, her voice rising in distress. “Oh, Nocturnal, if only I had succeeded –”

“It’s all right, lass.” Brynjolf patted her on the back to try and comfort her. “Kajsa’s stubborn. Once she’s made up her mind about something, there’s no changing it – and the Eight help those who get in her way.”

The jarl swallowed. _And I know that well._

Suddenly, the sound of a slamming door from within the back room came again, cutting him off. A young Imperial man with a square chin and mousy brown hair, dressed in worn Guild leathers, rushed in and stopped by the table.

To everyone’s surprise, Galmar was the first to react. “You!” he roared, shooting out of his seat and pointing a threatening finger at the newcomer before he could say anything. “You’re a damn member of the Thieves Guild! Why, I –”

“What’s going on here?” Ulfric interrupted in a dangerous tone.

His housecarl whirled around. “This man posed as a Stormcloak, fed me and Ralof some cock-and-bull story about how he’d been assigned to help with the investigation into Maven Black-Briar’s death, and volunteered for a guard position by Jarl Laila’s quarters! If he’s tampered with evidence –”

The Nord thief laughed at Galmar’s chagrin. “Calm yourself. Rune was merely carrying out my orders: doing some reconnaissance work collecting evidence.”

“Sorry about the deception, but it was necessary.” Rune smiled guiltily at the still-fuming general before sobering and turning to Brynjolf. “I did some investigating and found out some things, boss... and they’re not good.”

“What kinds of things?” the jarl demanded.

The Imperial man glanced over for an instant at Ulfric before his eyes snapped back to Brynjolf and he launched in. “I took a sample of some of the drugged wine down to Elgrim’s Elixirs to see if old Elgrim could tell us anything about what kind of poison was used. He wasn’t there, but Ingun was, so I gave it to her.

“She took one whiff and instantly recognized it as one of her own poisons. After she’d stopped her hysterics, I tried to ask her what it was. Ingun said that it was a special order: a unique paralytic poison that she’d brewed for her mother.”

The Second frowned in confusion. “Maven ordered the poison that was in her wine? Why would she risk drugging herself?”

“Unless she was trying to drug your Guildmaster,” Galmar proposed ominously.

All of the thieves’ heads turned towards the housecarl, wearing an array of expressions on their faces, from shock to incredulity.

“That’s right,” Galmar said exasperatedly. “Red-Blade was the one that Lady Black-Briar was meeting at the time of her death.”

The Nord thief was first to speak, in a threatening snarl. “If you’re suggesting that our Guildmaster was the one who killed Maven, then I have half a mind to run you through right now.”

“Actually,” Rune piped up tentatively, holding up a piece of parchment, “if the Guildmaster was meeting with Lady Black-Briar, that would explain this letter I found–”

“Give me that.” Ulfric snatched it from the thief’s grasp and read over the lines of perfect, upright script:

> _Maven Black-Briar, Jarl of Riften,_
> 
> _If what you say is true (and I do not doubt the word of a known friend of the Dominion) and “Kajsa Red-Blade” is indeed Guildmaster of the Riften Thieves Guild as well as the Dragonborn, then there is no time to lose. The Stormcloaks are certain to set their sights on the Rift next, and it is equally certain that she will accompany them on their campaign._
> 
> _I will arrive in Riften soon to further discuss the impending capture of the Dragonborn – which you, of course, will have a hand in. Due to your unique dislike of her, I trust that you will be more than up to the task._
> 
> _For the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion!_
> 
> _Justiciar Orthorien Aundae  
> _

Scarlet anger spread over his vision as his fists clenched involuntarily. The jarl could feel himself shaking with rage and had to force himself to stay in his seat, to _not_ hurl something against the wall, to _not_ scream in fury. _They have her. The Thalmor have Kajsa. Those arrogant, sadistic, depraved_ bastards _– when I get my hands on them –!_

“What is it?” he faintly heard Brynjolf say.

Ulfric raised his head, and it flashed through his mind how he must look to them: eyes crazed, mouth in a tight line, just moments away from his previously indifferent front exploding into murderous wrath.

“The Thalmor have her.” His voice came out as a deep growl. “Your precious patron tipped them off and they lured her into a trap.”

Brynjolf paled instantly. Karliah clapped both hands to her mouth in horror. Delvin nearly choked on a gulp of mead. Vex gave a violent start that nearly knocked her chair over. Galmar’s bushy eyebrows shot up. Sensing his cue to leave, Rune quietly slunk away into the shadows of the back room again.

Ignoring them all, Ulfric stood up from his seat suddenly, toppling his chair over, and stalked over to the far wall. He felt their stares on his back, but he ignored them as he crossed his arms tightly to keep himself from striking out at something and stared venomously at the damp stone. _Betrayed. She was betrayed by her own._

Footsteps behind him and a cautious hand on his shoulder indicated that Brynjolf had risen as well. “Jarl Ulfric –”

“Get away from me, _traitor_ ,” he spat, pushing him away.

“The Thieves Guild had nothing to do with this!” the Second insisted. “This was all Maven’s doing, not ours! Do you honestly think that we were faithless enough to go against Kajsa?”

“Brynjolf, please.” Karliah appeared at the Nord thief’s shoulder, her eyes full of sympathy. “Shouting at each other will not help in this.” Leaving the seething Second behind her, she approached Ulfric and bobbed her head in deference.

The jarl only glared at her. “What do you want?”

“Just a few answers.”

“Get on with it then,” he ordered brusquely, re-crossing his arms even tighter than before. _What does the Dunmer want?_

The Dunmer thief scrutinized him for a moment. Then: “You must care for Kajsa very deeply to come here,” she said quietly. “Is that correct?”

Ulfric did not answer. _Why is she asking me this?_

“How do you feel knowing that she is held prisoner by your enemy?”

He exhaled heavily, trying to seek out the words he needed. “Enraged. I – I feel pure rage, hotter than the sun itself.” His words broke off, and the jarl dropped his head. “It is as though a dagger is being twisted through my heart.”

Karliah nodded in understanding, sorrow in her eyes. “And what are you willing to do to get her back? How far are you willing to go?”

“Anything,” he said instantly. “I would walk through Oblivion itself.”

The Dunmer thief regarded him wordlessly for a moment, her face darkly contemplative. Then: “I know of the pain you feel all too well. While I am more than aware of the hatred you have of my race and of the Guild, Jarl Ulfric, we hold something in common: the friend we have in Kajsa.” She looked him directly in the eye. “If you would accept my offer, I will stand beside you and help you save Kajsa.”

“I would do the same.” It was Brynjolf, his face set and determined. “The whole of the Guild offers you its aid.” He shrugged wearily. “It – it’s what Kajsa would have wanted us to do.”

Ulfric paused, weighing his options. He had no intention of accepting help from the Thieves Guild, Maven Black-Briar’s little gang of sycophants. But yet, at the same time, he had a sinking feeling that he would need all the help he could get if he ever wanted to see Kajsa again – to see her alive.

 _Kajsa._ Swallowing hard, he thought of the last glimpse he’d had of her: sly smile, wind-tousled hair and red cheeks, the dark eyes that he knew so well. _She had me go to the Thieves Guild for a reason. Like it or not... she knew it would come down to this._

He took a good look at all of their faces – the earnest ones of Brynjolf and Karliah, as well as the resolute ones of Delvin and Vex. The jarl was beginning to see why Kajsa trusted and loved these people, with their own code of honor and their own notions of family. They may have been thieves, but they were fiercely loyal and willing to lay their lives down for one of their own like any shield-sibling would.  

_This is all for her. For Kajsa._

“Then it is settled,” Ulfric finally said. “We will get her back.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed. “All of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the longest thus far (and it also needs quite a bit of work), so it'll take me a little longer to update.
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	33. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Some Nights," Fun.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQkBeOisNM0)

Fingers loosely curled around a tankard of mead, Ulfric sat at a table in the Ragged Flagon, alone and silently contemplative. The fiery wrath from his earlier outburst had long since died down, but the embers still smoldered and burned, and the lingering smoke curled around his thoughts and choked them off – all of them, save for one: _How did it come to this?_

He thought of that morning, when he’d slept late, to be woken only by a nightmare and Galmar’s missive, and then the afternoon, riding through the spectacular beauty of the Rift to its hold capital... and now, in the darkest reaches of the evening, his world had been completely upended.

He, Ulfric Stormcloak – Jarl of Windhelm, son of the Bear of Eastmarch, rightful High King – was disguised in civilian clothes, sitting in a bar in Riften’s seedy underbelly, surrounded by thieves that had pledged to stand by his side in order to rescue their Guildmaster. And what’s more, he’d taken them up on their offer.

 _Has the world gone completely mad? Have_ I _gone completely mad?_

The series of ironic events that he’d just begun to think on did not end there. After the alliance was agreed on, the Senior Operatives, Galmar, and he had agreed to begun discussions of plans the following morning, due to the lateness of the hour. A still-riled Brynjolf had left immediately without another word to anyone else, but Karliah had lingered to give them quarters in the back rooms of the Ragged Flagon and the promise that none of the other thieves would harass them or bother them in any way. The jarl had to laugh at that: a Nord, one of his own countrymen, being so aggressive towards him, while a Dunmer, one of a race he’d long disdained, being the very model of hospitality.

As it turned out, Karliah made good on her promise. A few other thieves had passed through the Ragged Flagon for a drink or two since the meeting had disbanded, but they’d all kept their distance. Aside from a few seething glares from a Bosmer and another Dunmer who acted like he smelled something rotten – and Vex, who seemed to act sourly towards everyone – there’d been no outright shows of hostility.

To his surprise, Galmar was being slightly more sociable than usual. Delvin had challenged him to a drinking contest and some “light gambling,” as he’d termed it, a while ago; while his housecarl had outright refused to play dice (“You’re a bloody thief – you’ll cheat sooner than I can blink!”), he’d accepted the challenge of the drinking contest with great gusto and a remark of “Trying to out-drink a Nord is one mistake you’ll never make again after this.” Currently, both of them were on their second bottles of mead and casually exchanging toe-curling insults between leisurely gulps.

For a moment, Ulfric toyed with the idea of going over and observing the game, just to enjoy some kind of distant companionship, but he brushed it off. _I do not gamble with money – I never have and I probably never will. Somehow, I always end up gambling with what I hold dear._

His melancholy returning, he lifted his tankard to his mouth and drank deeply. The mead seemed oddly tasteless and bland, seemingly spoiled by his dour thoughts.

“Mind if I join you?”

Setting his drink back down on the table, the jarl looked up to see Brynjolf standing at his side. His face was neutral, with a hint of a friendly smile, but his eyes were still wary.

Ulfric shrugged, uncaring; even with his sudden wish to not remain lonely, he wasn’t sure whether he was actually ready to have it fulfilled. “I do not own the Ragged Flagon. You are welcome enough to sit down if you want.”

The Second laughed, pulling out a chair and sitting down in it, propping up his elbows on the table. “Thus far, your reception of me hasn’t exactly been cordial. I thought it prudent to ask.”

The jarl shook his head. “What happened to Kajsa...” He huffed irritably, forcing himself to admit his mistake. “I know it was not through the fault of the Guild. Maven hardly would have told you what insidious plans she had contrived to hand over your Guildmaster to the Thalmor.”

The Nord thief waved his concerns away. “No hard feelings. It’s easy, but often erroneous, to blame those associated with the wrongdoer. Trust me: I know from experience.” He smiled wryly. “I remember it all so clearly because the person being blamed was Kajsa, oddly enough.”

Ulfric glanced over sharply at the mention of the Dragonborn, swallowing hard. _It is as though every time I hear her name, I expect to see her standing there as if nothing ever happened._ “What were the circumstances?”

Brynjolf sighed. “Put simply, she was being posthumously accused of being a co-conspirator to treason against the Guild and attempted murder.”

The jarl frowned. “‘Posthumously’?”

“She was thought to be dead at the time.” The Second shifted in his seat so that he faced the other. “Look, do you just want me to tell you the whole story from the beginning – from the beginning that I remember?”

Ulfric tilted his head in an indifferent shrug-nod, belying his suddenly burning curiosity. _If it will take my mind off this mess for a while..._ “I have all night.”

Leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the Nord thief chewed his lip to gather his thoughts before beginning. “The first time I came to Riften, it wasn’t of my choosing. I was a scrawny seven-year-old orphan and I was on my way to Honorhall... but I had no intention of staying there and I ran the first chance I got.

“But my plan backfired on me. After a day of wandering aimlessly around the streets of Riften, cold and hungry, I was miserable enough to consider going back. Out of desperation, I attempted to pick someone’s pocket to try and get something I could use to buy food – and I got caught.

“Now, if that man had been anyone else, he would have called the guards and I would have been back in Honorhall before I even knew what had happened to me. Fortunately for me, that man happened to be Gallus Desidenius, then the Guildmaster.

“‘Not a bad start, lad,’ he said gently, his eyes twinkling. ‘But if you come with me, I can show you how to get better.’” He laughed softly at the memory. “I went with him... and that’s how I became the youngest-ever member of the Thieves Guild.”

The jarl considered this for a moment: a master thief taking an orphan off the streets and caring for him more than an orphanage matron ever would. “He sounds like a unique man.”

Brynjolf shrugged, frowning in thought. “How to describe Gallus? To be honest, the man was a bit of an enigma. He had the intelligence of a scholar, the altruism of a priest, and the cunning, calculating mind of a practiced thief. He was quick to forgive and wasn’t particularly fast to anger – but if you crossed him, you did so at your own risk. He could be a bit prideful at times, but I think he was a kind man at heart.

“I owe a lot – my life, in fact – to Gallus. He was like a father to me. He took me under his wing and he taught me all I know about thieving: picking locks and pockets, sneaking, running a con... everything.” The Second glanced down, falling silent for a brief moment.

“It hit me hard when he was murdered. I was – I was inconsolable. Even twenty-five years later, I’m still having a hard time getting over it. I was only ten years old then, but I yearned to join Mercer in hunting down his killer and taking revenge on her... but she vanished without a trace.”

Ulfric frowned at the unfamiliar name. “‘Mercer’?”

“Mercer Frey: Gallus’s Second and one of his closest friends. He became Guildmaster after Gallus was murdered.” For a moment, a shadow seemed to pass over the Nord thief’s face. “He was like his friend in some respects... and very different in others.”

“How so?”

“He was just as clever as Gallus was, maybe even more so, and a sly thief and an able leader. But the littlest things could set him off, and he never forgot an offense. However, the most glaring difference was that Gallus could always find the good in everyone – and Mercer preferred to focus on the bad. I used to wonder how they ever became friends...” He shook his head, as if to cut off his ruminations with that motion, and continued.

“In any case, Mercer was also the one who took over my education. He was an impatient teacher, so I made sure to pick up his lessons quickly to avoid censure. Yes, I learned from him, but I learned things of a different kind, the dirty tricks of thieving: framing, grifting, seducing, extorting, all that. In time, he deemed me ‘acceptable’ and allowed me to become a full member of the Guild instead of just a ward.

“It was around that time – when I was in my early twenties, about halfway through Mercer’s stretch as Guildmaster – that some new members began to trickle in to replace the ‘old guard.’ One of them was Rozenna.

“I’ll never forget the day she joined. She walked right into the Ragged Flagon – this petite Breton woman with flame-red hair who looks more like a fairy-tale princess than a thief – and she demanded to speak to Mercer. Delvin picked up his jaw off the floor long enough to point the way, and she strolled right past us and into the Cistern, cool as can be. Fifteen minutes later, she comes back out, sits down next to Del (the look on his face made me think his heart had stopped right then and there), and casually asks him about any jobs that need to be done.” He chuckled at the memory. “That was one of the first things that set her apart.”

Picturing the event, the jarl smiled despite his dismal mood. _She sounds like quite a character._ “Her beauty or her audacity?”

“Both. For someone with such a vibrant personality and a fiery spirit, she could be very quiet and subtle when she wanted to. One of the best pickpockets I’ve ever seen... I remember watching her artlessly chat up her marks and not even being able to tell at what point the purse strings were cut.

“And, of course, she had a family – something entirely unusual for a Guild member made even more so by the fact that she joined the Thieves Guild with the primary purpose of supporting them. She was happily married to a Nord blacksmith and veteran of the Great War, and she was the mother of a ten-year-old daughter.

Brynjolf shook his head, smiling sadly. “She loved her husband greatly, but I swear, that little girl was the center of her world. Roz was always talking about her talented, clever daughter like she was a goddess reborn.” He paused reflectively. “Her name was Katarina, but her da always called her ‘Kajsa.’”

Ulfric nearly choked on a gulp of his mead in surprise. _Kajsa?_ “You – you knew Kajsa as a child?”

The Second nodded. “She was like Roz’s little shadow, picking up all the tricks of the trade from her mother – except how to effectively pick pockets, it would seem,” he added with a laugh. “When her parents were especially busy, I looked after Kajsa for them, so I got to know her quite well.”

 _A childhood spent with the Thieves Guild... that explains a bit._ Setting his tankard down on the table, the jarl posed a question. “What was she like as a girl?”

The Nord thief considered it, a shadow passing over his face. Then: “If you were to compare that little girl and the woman she is now, you would have a hard time seeing them as the same person. She’s changed a lot since then, and not all for the better.

“Appearance-wise, it’s obvious enough. She took more after the Breton side of her family than the Nord: small and skinny – kind of bony, even – not many muscles to speak of. Her cheekbones stood out much more; gave her more of an elfish look. Her hair was more of a dark blonde than light brown, and it was much longer; she kept it back in a tight plait most of the time. The only visible scar she had was the one on her palm from when she accidentally sliced it open with her dagger.

“Her personality...” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Gods, that seems worlds away from what it is now, even though it really wasn’t all that different. Still independent, plenty stubborn. Sarcastic too, but more witty than cruel. Much more curious, but now, she’s just less obvious about it.

“The most glaring difference was – it was that she was _happy_. Genuinely happy. She smiled, she laughed, she loved... there’s just no other word for it but ‘happy.’” Brynjolf laughed, but it was short and without humor. “When she came back to Riften a year ago – even after she told me who she was – I nearly didn’t recognize her. Not just from the way she looked, but from the way she acted. She – she was _changed_.”

Ulfric frowned again. “‘Came back’?”

The Second sighed heavily. “Two years after Rozenna joined the Guild, she unexpectedly died while on a job up near Morthal. Olav – her husband and Kajsa’s father – blamed the Guild for her death and left Riften with his daughter. I didn’t hear from Kajsa for over a decade after that until she showed up again last year.”

He sensed from the Nord thief’s evasiveness that there was more to the story than that, but decided not to probe further. “So Kajsa has been with your outfit for –” the jarl did the math in his head “– only a year and _she_ is the Guildmaster?”

“Aye. And that’s where my story picks up: the two hundredth and first year of the fourth era – this past year. Gallus had been dead for about a quarter of a century, Mercer had been Guildmaster for that whole time, Gallus’s murderer still remained at large... and there were whispers that the legendary Dragonborn had returned to Skyrim.” He chuckled. “Delvin plumbed all of his contacts for information about the Dragonborn – wanted to get his greedy little hands on some dragon bones or scales – but they couldn’t come up with a single clue. He was absolutely beside himself.”

Ulfric nodded in understanding, remembering his first, futile attempts to track down Kajsa. _That woman is like a ghost when she does not wish to be found._

“But in the space of a few months... the Guild was completely upended. It was in utter turmoil, just like it had been twenty-five years previously.” Brynjolf swallowed. “And then... the truth finally came out.

“It all started one rainy night at the end of Last Seed. I had popped into the Bee and Barb for a drink before heading back down to the Ragged Flagon, mostly out of habit. I’d been trying to recruit new thieves – usually newcomers to Riften – to bolster our thinning ranks, but it hadn’t been working out that well. They either refused outright or tried to call the guards on me, and either way, it was costing me quite a bit. Mercer had threatened consequences if the next recruit turned out to be a dud, so I feared that he meant that my position as Second was on the line.

“But that night, I noticed this woman I’d never seen before sitting alone, drinking some mead. Now, normally, I wouldn’t have paid any attention to her – sure, she was good-looking, but she would have looked better had she been cleaned up and wearing something other than some well-worn work clothes and a hooded robe – but she had a bulging coin purse on her belt.

“It took me aback for a moment – mostly because I wasn’t expecting it – but I knew right then and there that this woman was a thief, plain and simple, and a relatively successful one at that. This was just the kind of person that could prove useful to the Thieves Guild, and if I succeeded in recruiting her, then Mercer would be put in a better mood and my neck would be off the chopping block for the time being.

“I sauntered over to her and sat down in the other chair. ‘Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all that coin you’re carrying – eh, lass?’ I asked her.

“She looked up at me like she’d been startled out of her thoughts and her eyes widened a bit as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. ‘Bryn? Is that you?’

“That was the second time that night that I was taken aback. This complete stranger knew me – knew me by my nickname, even. By this time, I was staring at her like a fool, wondering exactly where I knew her from.”

“It was Kajsa, was it not?” the jarl cut in.

The Second nodded. “She had to tell me her name before I truly recognized her. I felt a little embarrassed about that, but honestly: how can you identify someone you haven’t seen in over a decade?

“In any case, we fell to talking and catching up, and she asked me how the Guild was doing. I told her that we weren’t doing as well as we used to and all about my failed search for new members and how my position was on the line – all that. I confessed that I didn’t exactly know what to do about this and asked for her advice.

“She looked at me seriously and said, very matter-of-factly, ‘Recruit me. I need the money and you need the extra pair of hands. It works out for everyone.’” The Nord thief smiled at the memory. “So that’s just what I did. After she did a few side jobs for me, I put in a good word for her to Mercer and she became an official member.

“Now, the Guild’s problems still weren’t over. Maven’s business was suffering and she ordered us to find out what was going on, as well as to sabotage the operations of those two locations while we were at it. One was Honningbrew Meadery, a new competitor that had gotten itself established rather quickly. The other was Goldenglow Estate, a bee farm that Maven used to buy from until the owner suddenly decided he was going to cut off all ties to the Black-Briars, stop sending the Guild its cut, and hire a dozen mercenaries to guard the place. Kajsa was the one sent on these jobs.

“I won’t bore you with the details, but the long and the short of it is that someone was trying to drive a wedge between Maven and the Guild – trying to make Mercer seem incompetent at best and negligent at worst. In an admittedly inspired move, this mystery saboteur had bought Goldenglow and financed Honningbrew. We didn’t get a name until Kajsa went up to Solitude and... _obtained_ one from the unlucky fence that had brokered the deal.

“I didn’t discover this last piece of the puzzle until [the night that Mercer returned from some ancient Nord ruin up near Winterhold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169735), looking as though he’d been dragged through all the planes of Oblivion. When I asked him for an explanation, he said that he was tracking down Gallus’ murderer, the one that was trying to bring both him and the Guild down: Karliah.”

Ulfric raised his eyebrows. “Karliah? The same Dunmer that I met earlier?” _How is that so...?_

“Exactly. Mercer said that she’d got away, but not before she took steps to eliminate her accomplice: Kajsa.” Brynjolf stared down at the table and his tightly interwoven fingers. “Mercer had suspicions about her, so he had her accompany him to Snow Veil Sanctum and – and he realized that she was – that she was in league with Karliah. Before he could get anything out of her, Karliah killed her to tie up loose ends.” His shameful expression changed to a fierce glower. “He told us that Kajsa was a traitor to the Guild... and we believed him – _I_ believed him – because we didn’t know that we had been lied to all along.

“Mercer was the real traitor, not Karliah or Kajsa. He was stealing from the Guild’s vaults and when Gallus discovered his crime, Mercer murdered him and framed Karliah. For twenty-five years, he was draining the Guild dry... and we wondered why our luck seemed to be failing.” The Second shook his head in disgust. “And when Kajsa got in the way, Mercer killed her as well and fed us all a story about how she was a spy for Karliah. It was the perfect plan... but, fortunately for us, even ‘perfect’ plans hold flaws.

“After Mercer returned from Snow Veil Sanctum, he only stayed a day or two to recuperate before he was gone again. Said he had some old business to take care of and appointed me the acting Guildmaster in his absence. And then a week or two after that, we all got the shock of our lives when Kajsa and Karliah, both alive and well, walk right into the Cistern with wild – for they seemed so at the time – allegations against Mercer.

“I won’t lie: many of us, myself included, were all ready to kill them without a second thought. But Karliah had Gallus’s old journal that she recovered from his body and had translated from whatever damnable language it was in, and it backed up her words. But I needed to be absolutely sure, so I had our vault opened and – and everything was gone. Every last septim, gemstone, ingot, even our blueprints and plans for heists... _gone,_ like Mercer himself.” The Nord thief laughed harshly. “The irony, though not particularly humorous, was not lost on me: the thieves had been stolen from and the con artists had been conned. In a heartbeat, the Guild went from wanting to spill Karliah’s blood to wanting to hunt down Mercer and kill him slowly and painfully.

“First, we had to find out where he was. Kajsa broke into his house and retrieved some of his notes – notes that he stole from the Guild’s vault, I might add. They contained Gallus’s last heist plan, an audacious and brilliant scheme that would set us up for life: stealing two legendary, flawless gemstones called the Eyes of the Falmer from the Dwemer ruins of Irkngthand. If Mercer got his hands on those, he’d have enough gold to effectively vanish from Tamriel and we’d have no hope of getting revenge.”

“Seeing as Kajsa is now Guildmaster, I believe it would be safe to guess that the Guild’s revenge was carried out successfully,” the jarl remarked dryly.

Brynjolf nodded. “Karliah, Kajsa, and I wasted no time in riding to Irkngthand as soon as was humanely possible. It was ridiculous, but it seemed to me at the time that the elements were aligned in Mercer’s favor. A fierce snowstorm, too many bandits to count, and not to mention the dangers of Irkngthand itself – all in one trip. That gods-damned place was treacherous: filled with traps and old Dwemer mechanisms and Falmer... it still amazes me that we all got through there in one piece.

“We finally caught up with Mercer at the statue itself, just as he was prying the Eyes out from their sockets. The chamber was underneath a lake and the whole place was beginning to collapse in on itself as we arrived. Karliah and I were trapped, so it was up to Kajsa to kill him. It was perhaps one of the most frightening moments of my life: knowing that my life itself and my livelihood were on the line and knowing that there was a very high chance that Mercer could win.

“But he didn’t. After a battle that seemed to last for an eternity, Kajsa found an opening in his defense. She stabbed him through the heart, collected the Eyes of the Falmer from his corpse, and left him to drown as the chamber was submerged. Of all the times that otherwise solid Dwemer construction had to fail...” His voice trailed off. “Well, we all got out safely. No casualties, except the one that was supposed to occur.

“You can guess at the rest of the story: the three of us returning to Riften in triumph, all the work to get the Guild back on its feet, Kajsa becoming Guildmaster after I finally succeeded in persuading her that I didn’t want the position... and now, this. And even though I have no idea why I even began to bring up old ghosts, it all comes full circle, believe it or not.”

Ulfric leaned over the table, resting his elbows on the battered wood. “Why do you say that?”

“The passphrase that Kajsa gave you. When she and Karliah and Vex sat down to create that verbal code, they chose that phrase because of the whole mess with Mercer. It’s not just a distress signal... it’s a rallying cry as well, a promise to avenge the victim and make the wrongdoer pay.” The Second smiled slightly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “I don’t know the extent of your relationship with her, but – but she must trust you quite a bit to give you that. And with Kajsa, trust is hard to come by.”

Suddenly, the realization hit him, all of his suspicions coming together to form a coherent picture. _No man would remember that much about one woman unless..._

“You are in love with her.” It was a flat statement, not one to be contradicted.

The Nord thief’s smile turned sad. “I _was_ in love with her. Not when she was a child – she was like the younger sister I never had then – but when she returned... well, I already told you what she was like: unapproachable, cold, sad. Whatever it was that happened to her in those years in between her time with the Guild, I don’t think she ever felt truly happy or safe after that.

“I thought I could give her back that happiness and security... and I was wrong.” He shrugged tiredly. “She wasn’t interested. Said that she couldn’t love anyone else and that we should remain friends. And so we did. But I’m glad for her that she finally found someone that she feels she can love.”

“You will have to forgive me for remaining skeptical about your last remark,” the jarl said wryly.

Brynjolf laughed. “No apology necessary. I’ve been in that position before, too.” Shifting his position in his chair so that he was sitting more upright, the Second scrutinized him closely. “You really do love her, don’t you?”

Ulfric paused. “I do not know if I would call it love,” he finally said. “Besides, Kajsa can be...” _Difficult? Frustrating?_ “... distant at times. I am not certain of what she feels about me.”

“And are you certain about the way you feel about her?”

The jarl sighed heavily. “No.” _Once, I wanted the Dragonborn, the hero of Skyrim, but I got Kajsa instead. And now that she is gone...I do not know whether I want the legend or the woman back._

The Nord thief smiled. “Do you want me to tell you what _I_ _’m_ certain of?”

Ulfric briefly closed his eyes in silent assent. “Go on.”

Brynjolf’s smile grew a little more knowing, but still sympathetic. “I saw you two embracing after she returned to Windhelm, right after I’d just brought you that intelligence from Fort Greenwall on her command. I’m not sure if you realize this, but... Kajsa isn’t exactly one for physical contact.”

The jarl’s throat tightened, a feral scream and horror-hollowed eyes echoing in his memory. _Oh, I realized... realized too late._

“She doesn’t trust anyone with any part of her, be it her body, her well-being, her emotions, or whatever else lightly. If she has let you hold her, if she has willingly joined your army and accepted you as her future king, if she has entrusted you with knowledge of her life with the Thieves Guild and that passphrase... I think it’s safe to say that she trusts you deeply. And with Kajsa, trust is dearer to her than anything.”

Ulfric was silent for a long time, sitting still in his seat with his eyes drifting down to the tabletop so as not to meet Brynjolf’s eyes. A storm of emotions – shame, self-loathing, desperate need – dashed over him, and he swallowed hard, tightening his lips firmly. Now, it seemed as though his heart had constricted even further, and he missed her more than ever; he wanted her by his side again like this whole catastrophe had never and would never happen. _How could I have doubted her? And at a time like this?_

“Thank you, Brynjolf,” he finally said, his voice quiet. “What you have said...”

The Second nodded in understanding. “No explanation necessary. I know what you’re feeling.” He stood, stretching slightly, and clapped the jarl on the shoulder as he strode by. “You should stop drinking yourself into Oblivion and get some rest. We’ve got important work ahead of us tomorrow.”

Ulfric half-heartedly returned the gesture, and then let out a quiet sigh and slumped back into his chair, his mind numb and hollow. The drink in front of him did not appeal to him anymore, but neither did sleep. _If it brings me dreams – or nightmares – of Kajsa..._

Remembering last night’s vision, the jarl slowly rolled down the cuff of his left tunic sleeve. On the underside of his thick wrist, lay the burned-red, but old mark of a brand: a hammer of Talos, carved with unreadable, ancient runes.

The Thalmor’s mark for anyone they deemed a Talos-worshipper – and the same mark he’d seen on Kajsa’s back in his nightmare.

Ulfric contemplated it with a dark frown, lightly tracing the indented lines with one finger. _What_ exactly _did Kajsa do to incur the wrath of the Thalmor?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't end up rewriting this as much as I thought I had to, which made me happy... personally, this is one of my favorite chapters of the story.
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	34. Laying Plans

Except for the distant sound of water dripping somewhere, the Ragged Flagon was completely silent. The six of them, the only ones in the bar and the only ones awake this early in the morning, were gathered on the main floor. Not one of them had spoken a word, unwilling to be the one to take charge and direct this most unlikely of meetings.

Glancing around from his seat at one of the tables, Ulfric was tired enough to believe he was still sleeping – _I must be, for me to dream of sitting down and holding a civil discussion with the Thieves Guild._ His drinking last night hadn’t helped him sleep any; every time he closed his bleary eyes, he seemed to see Kajsa behind his lids and jolted awake again. Finally, he’d given up on the enterprise of sleeping and just lay in his bed in the dingy back room of the Ragged Flagon, listening to Galmar snoring thunderously from across the room.

At long last, Brynjolf stood from his chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Seeing as I’m Second, it appears that it falls to me to run this meeting.”

“Be our guest, Bryn,” Vex said sarcastically from her perch on top of a barrel. “No one’s stopping you.”

The Nord thief sighed quietly, but straightened up and fixed them all with a serious look. “We all know what the situation is: our Guildmaster has been captured by the Thalmor. Jarl Ulfric –” he motioned at the jarl “– has designs of rescuing her, and we have pledged to join him in his endeavor. I need not tell you that this is an incredibly dangerous endeavor, as the Thalmor are not to be taken lightly. We will need to plan extensively and prepare carefully if this is to be a successful mission.” He spread his hands to invite others to answer. “Where do we start?”

Karliah, sitting on a tall stool by the bar, spoke first. “We find out where she is. It’s like Gallus always used to say: solving the puzzle of location is the key to a successful heist.” She smiled sadly, briefly. “Everything – our attire, our weapons, our tactics – depends on where Kajsa’s being held. If we determine that first, everything else _will_ come together.”

Ulfric regarded her for a moment with the beginnings of respect. For a split-second, he could see the woman that Brynjolf had spoke of the previous night: the woman framed for the murder of her beloved, the woman who ran from her own friends and covered up her tracks for a quarter of a century. In her deep violet eyes, he saw the woman she had been forced to become: always calculating the risk, always thinking ahead, never taking anything for granted.

“Well, assuming she’s still in Skyrim,” Galmar said gruffly, “there’s only one place she _could_ be: Haafingar. It’s the only hold still under Imperial control and the one place that those accursed Altmer are certain to be.”

“The Thalmor Embassy’s there,” Delvin mused. “That place sure ‘as a ‘elluva lot o’ security and masses o’ Thalmor. Do you think they’d take ‘er there?”

The housecarl shrugged. “Maybe. There’s also Fort Hraggstad, the main Imperial stronghold outside of Solitude, but that’s teeming with Imperials now. And then there’s Northwatch Keep, the Thalmor’s personal circle of Oblivion for everyone and anyone they don’t like. A lieutenant of ours, Thorald Grey-Mane, ended up there as a prisoner of war. Was there for quite a bit before he got rescued by his brother and –”

“– Kajsa,” the jarl finished grimly. “And therein lies the problem with the Thalmor imprisoning her in there or the Embassy. She knows them both; she has successfully infiltrated both of them. It would make it much easier for her to escape if she knew her way out.”

“Unless she couldn’t escape at all,” Vex pointed out disparagingly. “It’s a possibility,” she defended when a few glares were thrown her way. “I mean, the Thalmor don’t have a habit of leaving their prisoners alive. Once they’ve gotten whatever information they want from Kajsa, they’ll probably ki –”

“We ain’t doubtin’ you, but that was jus’ a touch insensitive, luv,” Delvin muttered, glancing over at Ulfric.

The jarl kept his face neutral, but with some difficulty. _Insensitive, yes, but very much true. The Thalmor are hardly going to leave their single most powerful enemy alive for long..._ He swallowed painfully.

Karliah cleared her throat, interrupting the uncomfortable silence. “Vex, could you go find Etienne and bring him in here? I believe he’s back in the Cistern somewhere.”

With a snort and a dramatic eye-roll, the Imperial slid off the barrel and slunk past the huddle, vanishing into the corridor leading to the back rooms of the Ragged Flagon.

Brynjolf frowned. “Etienne? Etienne Rarnis? What’s that scatterbrained lad got to do with this?”

“Don’t you remember?” the Dunmer gently chided. “Kajsa released him from the Thalmor Embassy after he was kidnapped while on a sweep of the Ratway. He has first-hand knowledge of the place.”

The Second sighed. “Karliah, that won’t do us much good. The lad’s forgetful; I’m surprised he walks into the Flagon every day with his boots on, let alone being on the right feet.”

Karliah smiled at him. “True. But he’s unswervingly devoted to the Guildmaster. She _did_ save his life, after all. I have a feeling that he’d be more than willing to help repay the favor.”

The unseen door in the back room slammed again. Almost immediately after that, a narrow-eyed Vex pushed a slight Breton thief with lank blonde hair and wide eyes into the center of the Flagon’s floor. Brushing past him without a word, she hoisted herself back onto her perch on top of the barrel.

“You – you wanted to see me, Brynjolf?” the young Breton asked hesitantly.

The Nord thief tiredly pointed towards Karliah. “Talk to _her_ , Etienne. This was all her idea.”

Raising an eyebrow at Brynjolf, but leaning forward slightly in her seat, the Dunmer addressed the newcomer. “I apologize, but I have a question for you: do you remember the Thalmor Embassy in great detail?”

“Er... um...” Etienne squinted confusedly. “Erm... not really. Sorry.”

The Second spread his hands again in a “there you have it” gesture, looking meaningfully at Karliah.

She ignored him and posed another question. “What do you remember about the layout, if anything?”

“Not much. I only ever saw the dungeons, and that was only when I was semi-conscious.” Rarnis forced a laugh, but it came out strangled and awkward. “If you don’t mind my asking... why are you looking for information about the Embassy?”

Brynjolf shot him a warning look.

Etienne gulped. “Right. Sorry I asked.”

 _Now_ the Dunmer fixed the Nord thief with a sharp, prim look. “Brynjolf, _honestly_ : stop being so childish.” She turned to the other again. “Do you know of anyone that would know something about the Embassy? Someone, perhaps, that would be well within our power to easily contact?”

The Breton brightened up a little; Ulfric was beginning to get the feeling that it was because this was an easily answered query. “Kajsa – er, I mean, the Guildmaster. Guildmaster Red-Blade. She was the one who rescued me.”

“But she wasn’t there on a rescue mission, was she?” pressed Karliah. “Do you know what Kajsa was there for?”

Rarnis scrunched up his face again in thought. “No... actually, yes. It seemed like she was looking for something; she asked me about the old coot down in the Ratway Warrens, like the interrogator had – I forget his name – the crazy old guy, not the Justiciar... it was something like Sideburns. Es-something...”

The jarl frowned in recognition, remembering an old Nord man in rumpled black traveling clothes, met at a negotiation that seemed like it had happened years ago. “Esbern?”

Etienne brightened again. “That’s it! Esbern! Wait,” he asked, squinting once more in confusion, “how do you –?”

“Thank you, Etienne,” Karliah interjected smoothly. “You may go now.”

The Breton was more than happy to oblige, scurrying off into the maze of back rooms and out of sight with a single nervous glance back at them.

Shaking her head slightly, the Dunmer frowned at Ulfric. “You know this man that Etienne spoke of?”

“I would not say that I _know_ him per say,” the jarl replied shortly. “I only encountered him once. I do not know much about him except that he is a loremaster for the Blades.”

“The Blades?” Delvin stared incredulously at him. “There’s still some that ‘aven’t been picked off by the Thalmor yet?”

“Apparently so.” Ulfric tiredly pushed some stray hair back from his face. “I know of only two, though; Esbern is one, and Delphine, the other. From what I can surmise, both have worked alongside Kajsa in the past and have no great love of the Dominion, Delphine in particular.”

“Well, it would seem likely that this Delphine ‘ad our lovely Guildmaster infiltrate the Embassy, then,” concluded the fence. “I don’t suppose you would know where to find ‘em, eh? Per’aps this Delphine character can give us some intel about the Embassy.”

The jarl shook his head. “If only I knew where they were hiding. They and whatever other Blades there are – if any – would be formidable allies against the Thalmor.”

“That brings up another question,” Brynjolf said, drumming his fingers on his arm. “Regardless of _where_ in Haafingar Kajsa might he held, who should we recruit – if anyone – to aid in the rescue? Is there strength or instability in numbers?”

“Who will be sent on this little suicide mission, anyway?” Vex interrupted. “Is the jarl just going to sit back and let _us_ do the dirty work?”

Ulfric glared at her, some of yesterday’s fury boiling up within him again. “I have no intention of doing that,” he snapped. “I _will_ be leading this mission and I _will_ be fighting alongside you.”

The words were out of his mouth almost before he could stop to consider what he was saying. It was only once they hung in the air that the jarl realized the implications of what he’d said. _Think! You’re nearly fifty years old and haven’t touched a blade since Helgen! What chance have you of surviving this?_

Apparently, Vex had been thinking the same thing; she snorted incredulously. Delvin merely furrowed his brow in doubt.

Galmar sighed reluctantly. “I suppose I’m coming along, too, being your housecarl – your sword and your shield and all that.”

“Then I will come as well.” Karliah rose from her stool, her eyes gravely resolute.

“And I,” volunteered Brynjolf, his jaw set.

The Dunmer shot an alarmed look over at him, but remained silent. Ulfric didn’t know what to make of it, but he was strangely thankful that both of them had stepped up.

Delvin chuckled. “No ‘fense to any of your combat skills, but the four of you ain’t gonna stand a chance ‘gainst Thalmor soldiers an’ wizards. Maybe Bryn and Karliah could sneak past ‘em at first, but if Kajsa’s not in a state to do that, you don’t ‘ave a prayer of gettin’ out wi’out bein’ noticed.”

“When you put it like that... it _is_ a bit of a stretch,” Karliah admitted. “This endeavor will require careful planning and quite a bit of supplies; I imagine that some magicka poisons and resist magicka potions will come in handy. However, I am unsure of who else to recruit, as I feel strength in numbers could be a better decision in this case.”

“I _may_ ‘ave a solution to one o’ your problems.” The fence twiddled his thumbs, pausing in uncertainty before continuing. “I know a rather talented girl that could, given the right ingredients, whip up a ‘ole batch of them fancy potions an’ poisons for you. Slightly unsettlin’, mind you, but a very charmin’ young lady – well, come to think o’ it, she ain’t exactly _young –_ ”

“Hang on a moment, Del,” said Brynjolf suddenly. “Are you talking about Babette? Because I’m not sure that would be a good idea...” He glanced over at the jarl and his housecarl as his voice trailed off.

“Who’s Babette?” Ulfric asked, frowning.

“Dark Brotherhood assassin, expert alchemist, an’ a good friend o’ Kajsa’s,” the Breton thief supplied. “Also a three-’undred-year-old vampire that don’t look a day over ten. Like I said: real nice girl.”

The jarl blinked in surprise, struggling for words. _The company that Kajsa keeps is... is..._ He decided not to finish that statement. “Do you have a way to contact her?”

“Of course. I can ‘ave a message sent out wi’in the day, and she can prob’ly get ‘ere a day or two after that.”

“Do that, then,” Ulfric ordered. _If what he and Karliah say is true, we will likely need her aid... however uneasy this makes me._

Successfully hiding his surprise and grabbing for a sheet of fresh parchment, Delvin snatched a quill and began scribbling furiously.

Galmar cleared his throat loudly, catching everyone’s attention. “If we’re going to go with the ‘strength in numbers’ approach, then I vote that we call in some actual warriors as well as... you people.”

Falling silent, the four thieves glanced at each other in trepidation and incredulity. Ulfric shot a look at the general, silently demanding for him to explain.

“The Companions,” the housecarl said exasperatedly. “Red-Blade’s their damn Harbinger; hopefully, they’ll rush to her aid.”

Vex gaped in consternation. “Is there anything that the Guildmaster _isn’t_ involved in? The Dark Brotherhood, the Companions, the Stormcloaks...” She huffed indignantly.

Brynjolf chewed on his lip in thought. “It’s not a bad idea – Galmar, was it? – seeing as having professional warriors alongside us would boost our chances of survival, but there _is_ one drawback.”

“It’s like havin’ a tax collector an’ a priest at the same party,” Delvin supplied. “Whatever they lock ‘orns over, the fact o’ the matter is that it ain’t goin’ to end well for either side.”

“If they come down here, they’ll throw us in the Riften Jail – or worse – faster than you can blink,” Vex sneered. “You know: upholding their precious honor, helping the people of Skyrim, and all that shit.”

“And if they do not come here?” the jarl asked slowly, making sure to at least partially think through what he said this time. “If everyone involved meets at a predetermined location that is effectively neutral ground for all concerned?”

The Second stopped worriedly chewing his lip and fixed his attention on him, eyes keen. “What did you have in mind?”

Ulfric stood authoritatively. “We assemble at the Palace of the Kings, with the understanding that all involved – be they from the Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the Companions, or anyone else that joins – will be working together towards a common goal. Your security will not compromised, it will cut the distance traveled by the others, and we can amass some of my soldiers to aid us.”

Karliah nodded approvingly.

“Well, it’s not much,” the Nord thief confessed, “but it’s a start.”

“Seconded.” Delvin crossed out something on the letter he’d been drafting and replaced it with something else. Setting the parchment aside, he grabbed another sheet and started writing anew. “I’ll ‘ave these sent out this mornin’. If you don’t mind me askin’, when do you four plan to leave?”

“As soon as possible,” the jarl answered.

Brynjolf clapped his hands together. “Then that’s settled. Karliah and I will prepare for the departure. Vex: once Delvin’s done with those letters, give them to Garthar and Thrynn and have them delivered. Jarl Ulfric, Galmar: wait here for the time being.” That being said, he strode off in the direction of the Flagon’s back rooms, Karliah following him close behind.

Galmar gripped Ulfric’s shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you.” He steered him off towards a poorly lit far corner of the bar, away from any potential eavesdroppers.

The jarl removed his housecarl’s hand from his shoulder. “What is it, Galmar?” His question came out more exasperated than he had intended.

He was met with a surprisingly fierce glare. “First, you drag me down into the Ratway on the basis of a largely unfounded suspicion. Next, you make deals with the Thieves Guild and the fucking _Dark Brotherhood_. Then, you say you’ll be going into battle again after gods know how many months it’s been since you’ve fought. And now, you bring these cutthroats into the Palace of the Kings!” The general threw up his hands. “Have you taken leave of your senses? The Ulfric Stormcloak that I know would never even _think_ of doing such things!”

“Galmar, I – I – times have changed. _Everything_ has changed.” Ulfric struggled for words, but tightened his face and regained his composure, speaking in a lowered voice. “The Thalmor have gone even farther than they ever have done before. If we do not oppose them, if we do not deal with them before our final assault on Haafingar and Solitude, then all we have worked for all this time is lost... and we will not get another chance to do that again. And the Dragonborn –” He swallowed. “She has become vital to our cause. If we are to continue winning this war as decisively as we have been in the past few months, we need her back.”

Galmar scrutinized him for a moment, his bushy eyebrows slowly rising. “Dear Talos... you really are in love with the Dragonborn.”

Ulfric opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it.

“No need for words, my friend. I’ve suspected it for quite a bit.” The housecarl’s voice sounded just a tiny bit smug.

Ulfric smiled, but without real humor. “Really.”

The general snorted. “Don’t you remember when you dragged your sorry arse into the Palace of the Kings with a passel of wounded soldiers behind you and told me all about what happened at Helgen? You recounted every last detail of the attack and your surroundings – including this girl that was on the cart with you.”

“I remember now.” _Gods, that seems so long ago..._

“You said something about how you wondered if she had escaped alive or not, and that it would be a pity if she didn’t, because she would have made a fine Stormcloak. Bravery in the face of death and all that.”

“And she did.” The jarl’s ghost of a smile turned sad.

Galmar frowned at him thoughtfully. “What makes Red-Blade so special, Ulfric? Besides the whole Dragonborn thing, why does she stand apart from all the others? Rikke, all the wenches you tumbled in your younger days, the beauties offered to you for marriage alliances...” He snorted. “I don’t blame you if it’s because you’d rather have her fighting with you than _against_ you.”

“There are many reasons,” Ulfric said quietly, “but now is not the time for them. There are more pressing things at hand.”

His housecarl nodded in understanding, all business now. “What do you want me to do?”

“Ride to Windhelm ahead of myself, Brynjolf, and Karliah, and tell Jorleif to prepare for quite a few guests.” Now, his small smile was genuine. “I think it is only prudent to warn him.”

“All right, but don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone,” the general warned.

Despite himself, the jarl laughed. “Galmar, there is no need to worry about me. I am more than capable of protecting myself.”

* * *

Peering into the dimly-lit corridor, Ulfric glanced around beyond the stacks of barrels and crates, towards the few doors lining the hallway. _Where could Brynjolf and Karliah be? Surely they’re ready by now._

“What were you thinking, Bryn?” Karliah’s voice wasn’t so much angry as it was desperate and alarmed. “Why did you volunteer yourself?”

At the sound of the arguing voices within the back room, the jarl paused in his tracks. As quietly as he could, he moved to the wall outside of the door and listened.

“Kajsa is important to me,” Brynjolf said firmly, simply. “She’s like a sister to me. She’s my friend, my Guildmaster, my sister Nightingale –”

“That’s the problem, Bryn. If we both go to rescue her and we all die, there is no one left. No one – not even _one_ – to pass the mantle of the Nightingales to three newcomers. _No one_.” Now her voice was clearly panicked. “That has never happened in the history of the Nightingales. _Never_. And I do not intend for it to happen now.”

 _Nightingales?_ Ulfric frowned at the unfamiliar name. _And Kajsa’s one..._

The Second sighed. “Lass, I don’t want that to happen either –”

“Don’t ‘lass’ me, Bryn!” the Dunmer snapped. “And you’re the Second! If Kajsa dies, you’ll need to step up and take over her duties as Guildmaster –”

“Calm down, Karliah, and don’t interrupt me,” the Nord thief rejoined. “Guildmasters are easier to replace than Nightingales. I’m leaving Delvin in charge in our absence; he may be loitering around and drinking all the time, but he’s sharp as a tack. That’s one problem taken care of.”

Karliah was quiet for a moment. Then: “And that of the Nightingales?”

“Then we pray to Nocturnal that nothing befalls us or Kajsa,” Brynjolf said grimly.

The Dunmer gasped. “That’s it, Bryn! Nocturnal!”

“What about Nocturnal?” The Second sounded a bit confused.

 _What indeed,_ Ulfric thought. _Who is this ‘Nocturnal?’_

“We ask Nocturnal for aid.” Karliah was speaking more and more rapidly now. “Kajsa was the one who returned the Key to the Sepulcher and gained our Lady’s favor. Unless they’ve ordered the death themselves, Daedra don’t take too kindly to having others go after their champions. We can go to Nightingale Hall, summon Nocturnal, and ask Her where Kajsa is. Then, when we’re planning the mission...” Her voice trailed off. “It’ll all fall together. We don’t have to put Cynric or Ravyn in harm’s way by sending them out to scout the locations that the housecarl suggested.”

“It could work,” the Nord thief said slowly after a few moments of consideration. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time as a Nightingale, it’s that there’s no free lunch when it comes to the Daedra. Nocturnal will want something in return.”

 _Daedra._ The jarl gritted his teeth. _Now_ that _is something I understand._

“We’ll have to worry about that when the time comes.” The Dunmer was resolute in her response. “Our Lady is inscrutable in Her desires.”

Straightening up from the wall, Ulfric stormed into the room without knocking. He barely paid any attention to the drab surroundings, his eyes snapping to the startled faces of Brynjolf and Karliah.

“How about we worry about that now?” he snarled.

Unexpectedly, the Second chuckled. “For someone who holds such scorn for thieves, you’re not half-bad at eavesdropping.”

Karliah raised one hand, as if to bring silence to the room. “Jarl Ulfric, let me explain –”

“Good, because you have a lot of it to do,” the jarl growled. “What are the Nightingales? Who is Nocturnal? And what does all this have to do with Kajsa?”

The Nord thief looked a little uneasy now. “Lass, are you sure you should be telling him about all this? It _is_ secret, after all.”

“If it was supposed to be a complete secret, then the first Nightingales did a terrible job of keeping it that way,” the Dunmer said wryly before turning back to Ulfric, her face grave. “To put it simply, the Nightingales are the three agents of Nocturnal, highly skilled thieves. Nocturnal is the Daedric Prince of darkness, night, and luck, and She is the patron of thieves. Brynjolf, Kajsa, and I are all Nightingales; Kajsa is also the Champion of Nocturnal.”

For the first time, Ulfric noticed the armor that both of the thieves wore. It was not the usual Thieves Guild garb, but something entirely different: ornate armor of overlapping scales of black leather, with a hooded cape that seemed to be made of shadow itself and a mask hanging freely from it.

_The last time I saw Kajsa... she was wearing that._

“Now you realize,” Karliah said softly. “Understand that the Nightingales cannot be destroyed and reformed again. This is why we must go to Nocturnal.”

“‘We’?” Brynjolf and Ulfric said in unison.

“Both of you are coming along,” the Dunmer said firmly. “I’m not facing Nocturnal alone again, Bryn. Jarl Ulfric... something tells me that Nocturnal is very much intrigued by you and whatever relationship you have with Her champion.”

“Why should I go with you?” the jarl snapped.

“I know you hate my kind and likely hold no belief in the Daedra, but _please_... trust me.” Karliah’s violet eyes were pleading. “If not for the trust you’ve placed in me and the Guild, then for your feelings towards Kajsa.”

Ulfric sighed irritably. _Conniving Dunmer, wielding my feelings and words against me._ “Fine. But you had best be honest with me.”

“I promise you, I will explain everything once we arrive,” the Dunmer said.

“Arrive where?”

“Nightingale Hall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	35. In the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Snowship," Benjamin Francis Leftwich](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAS3lodzg8A)

Stopping at the bottom of some stone steps leading to a small corridor with a low, arched ceiling, Karliah turned around to face her two companions, violet eyes grave. “Are both of you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, lass,” Brynjolf replied. “To be honest, I’m not exactly relishing the prospect.”

The edges of her mouth twitching in a tense smile, the Dunmer turned to a silent Ulfric. “And you, Jarl Ulfric?”

The jarl looked away from his surroundings – a moss-covered hall lined with faded banners on the walls and burning braziers – and towards her, not anticipating being addressed. “What can I expect?”

“I’d advise you to remain on your guard, as Nocturnal can be rather unpredictable at times,” Karliah instructed. “When She addresses you, be respectful, but not diffident. The Daedric Princes are generally not appreciative of those who are downright impudent, but they dislike weak-willed individuals even more.”

“‘When’?” Ulfric questioned sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Brynjolf and I are both Nightingales, and we have already proven ourselves to our Lady,” the Dunmer explained, biting her lip in hesitation. “If you are to associate with us and be trusted with the secrets of the Nightingales, Nocturnal will be... _testing_ you to judge your worth.”

“Why did you not mention this earlier?” the jarl demanded. “Before we stepped foot inside these caves, or before we left Riften, or before I even _agreed_ to come along?”

“Lass, you really do have a bad habit of not revealing crucial information until the last minute,” the Second remarked dryly.

Karliah sighed. “I apologize, but now isn’t the time to argue. We need to summon Nocturnal and find some answers.”

Biting back a scathing condemnation, Ulfric forced himself to nod and settle for sarcasm. “Then what is your plan?”

The Dunmer flinched a bit at his tone, but remained firm. “There’s a gate up ahead. Once I open it, stand on the western circle. When everyone’s in place, I’ll summon Nocturnal.”

“Sounds good, lass,” Brynjolf assured, albeit a bit shakily. “Lead on.”

Pulling her hood and mask up to conceal her face, Karliah turned around and walked onwards, up the stairs and into the narrow hallway, followed by the two Nords. Pulling a chain hanging from the ceiling, she paused and waited for a row of iron spikes to vanish into some holes in the floor before continuing on. After following the Dunmer’s lead by adjusting his own hood and mask, the Second then proceeded after her.

The jarl stepped out of the passage, glancing around at the huge chamber that the three of them had entered into. There was a circular stone dais in the center, the seal on the floor bearing the insignia of a stylized bird whose wings cupped a full moon. Branching off of the dais were three arcing walkways leading to miniature versions of the parent structure. Walking out to what appeared to be the westernmost circle – also the only vacated one – Ulfric took his place, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.

The figure in Nightingale armor on the circle next to him (judging by the slight frame, it was Karliah) knelt down on one knee, lifting both of her hands in supplication and raising her voice. “I call upon You, Lady Nocturnal: Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow. Hear my voice and answer my summons!”

Her words echoed off the moss-coated walls for a moment, and then the chamber fell completely silent. A split-second later, the air around the three of them grew dryer and thinner as a round, roiling void of deepest purple, ringed with shadowy smoke, crackled into sudden existence, hovering over the largest circle.

Brynjolf and Karliah both bowed their heads quickly, but the jarl remained still, eying it with uncertainty. _This is supposed to be a Daedric Prince?_

A harsh and brassy, yet distinctly feminine voice emanated from the void, filling the chamber with its displeasure. “Why do you summon me, Karliah? Have you come to throw yourself on my mercy, to beg for forgiveness?”

“Lady Nocturnal,” the Dunmer managed, bewildered, “I – I did not know that I had – had disappointed You somehow.”

“I should have learned by now not to trust you with possessions of mine.” Nocturnal laughed coldly, and the sound grated against Ulfric’s bones. “First, my Key, and now, my Champion – but unlike with the former, you had a chance to prevent the loss of the latter. A chance that you should have seized.”

“My Lady!” Karliah protested. “Kajsa outright refused our offers of aid and –”

“That does not matter!” The Daedric Prince’s enraged voice rang throughout the chamber. “I am not like my treacherous brothers, Mehrunes Dagon and Boethiah, who enjoy toying with their champion’s lives; I expect my Trinity to be _preserved!_ You should have been at her back, Karliah, instead of what you do now: cowering on your knees and offering me pitiful _excuses!_ ” The last word was nearly shrieked. “What would Dralsi Indoril have said if she were to look upon her daughter now? Disgraceful!”

The Dunmer seemed to crumple under Nocturnal’s barrage, sinking all the way to ground, her shoulders sagging. For a moment, Ulfric felt pity for her, but also intense gratitude that the Daedric Prince had not turned to him yet.

“Lady Nocturnal,” Brynjolf began cautiously, his usually self-assured brogue wavering, “we come not to apologize, but to redeem ourselves in Your eyes. We intend to rescue Ka – Your Champion, but in order to do that, we need Your assistance.”

There was silence for a moment, and the absence of sound was even more frightening than Nocturnal’s screeching. Then: “Look at me, Karliah.”

The Nightingale in question slowly raised her head. “Yes, my Lady?”

“I will give you this last chance to redeem yourself. If you succeed, I will pretend as though this... _debacle_ of yours never happened. But if you fail –” Her words hung threateningly in the air.

“I will not disappoint You again, my Lady,” Karliah swore quickly.

“We shall see,” Nocturnal purred smugly. “Now, Brynjolf: please have the third member of your little party introduce himself.”

At the Second’s nod, Ulfric straightened up to address the void, praying that his uneasiness was hidden well enough. “I am Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, son of the Bear of Eastmarch –”

“– the Bear of Markarth, the Killer of Kings, and the future High King of Skyrim – or so he hopes,” the Daedric Prince finished, a mocking tone to her voice. “Tell me, Jarl Ulfric: why are you here with my Nightingales?”

“I am here because – because I wish to save Kajsa as well.” _No other reason could have possibly brought me here._

“And why is my Champion so important to you, hmm?” Nocturnal questioned.

The jarl swallowed; it seemed as though the void was a single, lidless eye, scrutinizing him intensely. “She is the Dragonborn. She is the single greatest soldier in my army. She is my confidante and my friend and –” He stopped before he could finish his sentence: _And she is more important to me than I can say._

Derisive laughter echoed throughout the chamber, and he flinched at the sound. “Oh, how precious. It seems that _love_ is to be the downfall of my Trinity.” The Daedric Prince’s voice turned scornful. “Gallus loved Karliah, as did the traitor Mercer Frey. Brynjolf loved Kajsa. Mercer could not have Karliah, so he killed Gallus and framed the woman he loved. Brynjolf could not have Kajsa, so he believed Mercer’s lies.

“Love is a foolish thing: a weakness, the worst curse of all... but one that you mortals embrace willingly. Even _you_ , Jarl Ulfric, the most stalwart and driven of men – you wanted the ultimate warrior, a political prize, and instead of using the legend, you fell for the woman.” She laughed again at the aghast look on Ulfric’s face. “So tell me, Jarl Ulfric: why love at all?”

Ulfric was quiet for a moment, trying to gather his words. _Is it any use? To try and say what I have never spoken of, what I cannot possibly speak of –_

“Hope,” he said aloud. “Love – should give hope.” He looked up at the void; its depths seemed to drink him in, see deep within him, but he still soldiered on.

“Kajsa gave _me_ hope – the hope that I will finally achieve what I have fought for all of these years, the hope that there is heroism and nobility in all of us, even those who do not believe themselves heroes, and...” He nearly choked on his words, and he cleared his throat. “And the hope that I had found someone who seemed to be so alike to me, it was as if they were a part of myself.”

Silence filled the chamber. The jarl could feel Brynjolf’s and Karliah’s sympathetic eyes on him, but he did not meet them, instead looking down towards his feet. The Nightingale crest stood out from the stone beneath him, making him feel even emptier than before. Standing in the place that rightfully belonged to Kajsa made him feel even emptier, like an interloper. _I should never have agreed to come._

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Nocturnal spoke. “I have no stomach for human sentiments, love included, but there is one principle that I can abide: loyalty. Are you, Jarl Ulfric, truly loyal to my Champion, as you have insinuated?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. “Always.”

“How far would you be willing to go to save her? Until _Sovngarde,_ as you Nords always say?”

“Even farther.”

“And would your loyalty to her ever waver? Even if she had done something entirely inexcusable in your eyes, would you stand by her side?”

“I – I will always be steadfast.”

The Daedric Prince laughed lightly. “Such unswerving devotion to a woman you know almost nothing about. Had you been a thief rather than a jarl, you would have made a wonderful Nightingale.”

 _What does she mean by that, that I “know almost nothing” about Kajsa?_ Ulfric nearly frowned, but kept his face neutral and his demeanor polite. “Thank you for your compliment, Lady Nocturnal.”  

“There is no need to thank me for stating what is fact.” Her amused tone turned sharp. “Do not forget that time is running. Whatever you have summoned me for, it needs to be accomplished now.”

“We – or, I suppose the jarl does – have some questions for you, my Lady,” Brynjolf said quickly. “About Kajsa’s abduction.”

Nocturnal seemed to pause in consideration. Then: “And you are prepared to pay the price for the information? Whatever I may ask of you?”

The Second and Karliah both nodded, followed with some hesitation by the jarl.

“Very well. Jarl Ulfric, you may ask three questions of me: no more, no less. I will give you the plainest answers I can – the Daedric Prince of darkness must preserve _some_ secrets.” There was the faintest hint of some dark humor in her last remark.

Now, Ulfric frowned, carefully planning what he would say. _If I have only three questions, I must make every one of them count._ “My first question is this: where in Skyrim do the recently reformed Blades make their headquarters?”

“Deep within the Karthspire, in Sky Haven Temple.”

The jarl’s frown deepened. _Karthspire... the name is reminiscent of the Reach._ “Second question: where in are the Thalmor holding Kajsa?”

“At the Thalmor Embassy in Haafingar.”

Ulfric’s spirits dropped a little further. _Out of the three locations suggested, that is the worst of them all. We will need the Blades for that._ “My third and final question... why exactly have the Thalmor captured Kajsa?”

There was another pregnant pause. “I would advise that you look to Hjerim for your answer to that question, Jarl Ulfric.” An air of smug secrecy was creeping into the Daedric Prince’s words. “My Champion hides many stolen treasures in her houses: some to sell, some to keep – and a handful to conceal from others’ prying eyes.”

The jarl stiffened in alarm. _Kajsa knew why the Thalmor were after her?_

“Thank you, my Lady,” Karliah thanked, gratitude flooding her voice.

“Do not thank me yet, Karliah,” Nocturnal warned. “You know not yet what I will ask of you in return for this information.”

“Well, what _do_ You ask of us, then?” Brynjolf asked a trifle impatiently.

Suddenly, the void crackled again as it swirled into a smoky mass in the very center. As the deep shadows wove into it, they refined the formless shape into something resembling a human figure.

“Who – who is _that?_ ” the Dunmer gasped.

Ulfric peered at the shadow’s face. It appeared to be a young Breton man, probably in his middle twenties, with unkempt dusty-brown hair and stubble, keen olive eyes, a slightly crooked nose, and thin lips. Even though it was a lifeless image of whoever it was supposed to represent, the shadow seemed to project a sort of effortless charisma and cunning.

“His name is Ronan Sorleigh.” As the Daedric Prince spoke, the image vanished as quickly as it had come. “Your task is this, my Nightingales: find him and bring him into the Thieves Guild. Train him. When the time is right, make him a Nightingale.”

“Lining up a replacement for me already, I see,” Karliah murmured fearfully.

Nocturnal laughed suddenly, a sound that sent chills down Ulfric’s spine. “Oh, you need not worry, Karliah. Ronan may not have to replace you for a while longer, provided you make sure that no harm comes to my Champion during your little rescue mission. Given the short lives of my Nightingales, I only feel it prudent to have a backup.”

“What’s so special about the lad?” the Second questioned.

“What is there to say? He may be young, but with the Guild’s guidance, he has the capability to become a truly exceptional thief and Nightingale.” She laughed again, soft and sinister. “Like father, like son.”

“‘Father’?” the Dunmer gasped, going pale. “You can’t mean –”

“What are you talking about, lass?” the Nord thief ventured, confused.

“Don’t you see the resemblance, Brynjolf?” the Daedric Prince purred. “His father was your _beloved_ late Guildmaster, Mercer Frey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS, there it is!
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	36. New Ways to Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["New Way to Bleed," Evanescence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6e-ycA8YcJ0) (as evidenced by the chapter name)

“I still can’t believe it,” Brynjolf repeated, completely dumbfounded. “Mercer Frey, a _father?_ I never even knew he had a _family!_ Karliah, did –”

The Dunmer shook her head. “I’m just as shocked as you are, Bryn.”

“I wonder who the mother was,” the Second mused to himself. “Did Mercer marry her or was the child illegitimate? Whoever she was, was she even willing?”

“The Mercer that I knew before his betrayal wouldn’t have forced himself on a unwilling woman. The Mercer after that...” Karliah sighed sadly. “Only the gods know.”

Masser and Secunda did little to illuminate their surroundings as the three of them – Brynjolf, Karliah, and Ulfric – rode on the road to Windhelm. After their conference with Nocturnal, they’d fetched horses from the Riften Stables (at the jarl’s insistence, both of the Nightingales had somewhat grudgingly paid for them) and started on their journey. They’d finally left the Aalto behind them as evening had begun to fall, and the trio were once again surrounded by the pine woods that signaled their proximity to Kynesgrove – and to Windhelm.

The three of them hadn’t spoken much on the ride, but Ulfric knew that the same issues, in varying degrees of urgency, were all on their minds: Kajsa, the Blades, the Thalmor, Nocturnal’s words. For the longest time, Brynjolf had been the only one to speak his thoughts aloud and voice his confusion over the clopping of the horses’ hooves, and finally, Karliah had joined him. However, the jarl was more than content to keep his furious thoughts to himself.

 _What doubts has that damned Prince put in my head? “A woman you almost know nothing about”... lies, all lies. I know plenty about Kajsa: her temperament, her responses, her being the Dragonborn, her ties to the Guild and the Brotherhood, her past lycanthropy... what do I_ not _know?_

He tried to force himself not to answer that question, but it kept creeping up on him. _I do not know much about her past. I still do not know how she came to be on the cart to Helgen. I do not know why she is so averse to touch, why she is so distant. I do not know what her true feelings towards me are. I do not know –_

“I’m just not sure _what_ to think,” the Nord thief was saying in disbelief. “Mercer just never seemed like the kind of man who would be a father. Did he even know – or _care_ – that he had a son?”

“We may never know, Bryn,” the Dunmer said wearily. “Nocturnal asked us to find him, not to speculate on his father’s actions.”

“But why else would She have mentioned Mercer?” Brynjolf demanded. “And why does She task us with this _now_ , at this crucial time? Nocturnal’s got something up Her sleeve, lass, and I’ve got a bad feeling about whatever it is.”

“I agree,” Ulfric concurred, breaking his silence. “Your _Lady_ , Karliah, is playing us like strings on a lute.”

Karliah shrugged helplessly. “It’s what the Daedra do, Jarl Ulfric, and Nocturnal is one of the Princes that especially delights in manipulation. But I believe there’s a reason that She is being so cryptic. Whatever Kajsa has hidden away in Hjerim, it must be of enough importance that Nocturnal Herself wants us to find it.”

“What is this Hjerim place, anyway?” the Second asked. “You seem to know what it is, Jarl Ulfric.”

“It is one of the manors of Valunstrad, the oldest section of Windhelm,” the jarl answered. “Hjerim used to belong to Friga Shatter-Shield, but her parents left the house abandoned after their daughter’s murder.”

“By the infamous Butcher of Windhelm?” the Nord thief questioned. “I’ve definitely heard of him.”

Ulfric nodded grimly. “The killer used Hjerim as a lair for a time before Kajsa tracked him down and killed him. I eventually bought the house from the Shatter-Shields and giving it to her as a reward for her services to Eastmarch.”

Brynjolf whistled. “No wonder she’s sticking with you. I’m only joking,” he defended after a look from Karliah. “It’s just that that’s a pretty extravagant gift.”

“What ‘services to Eastmarch’ do you refer to, Jarl Ulfric?” the Dunmer inquired, interrupting the Second.

“Stopping the Butcher for one, and helping to defend the city from an attacking frost dragon. She has also collected many bounties for me across the hold. And, of course, her service with the Stormcloak army; it seems as though she has single-handedly turned the tide of war.” _Not “seems.” She_ has.

The Nord thief shook his head, half in amazement and half in realization. “Hearing all that, it’s no surprise that the Thalmor have it out for her.”

Swallowing, the jarl didn’t respond.

“We’ll likely get to Windhelm soon enough,” Karliah said softly, urging her horse on a little faster. “Before we head to the Palace of the Kings, we’ll stop to take a look inside Hjerim.”

Ulfric nodded silently, his mind drifting back to Kajsa and Nocturnal’s taunting words about her. _What could Kajsa possibly have hidden in Hjerim? What purpose does it serve in our little quest?_

_And why does Nocturnal seem to think that I will break faith with her?_

* * *

The first thing Kajsa noticed as she stirred were the floorboards below her: old and bloodstained and beginning to bend and twist out of shape – or, it certainly seemed to her that way, as her vision brightened and darkened, blurred and sharpened before her eyes. Dizzied, she squeezed her eyes shut again and then re-opened them, but the only good that did was the floor beneath her stopped spinning.

The second thing was that her body felt curiously numb, but heavy, as though each of her limbs weighed as much as a mountain. She tried to lift her throbbing head, but it seemed like a boulder had been put in its place, and her chin dropped back upon her chest.

Then she noticed the third thing – her Guildmaster’s leathers and Mehrunes’ Razor were both gone, and she was only clad in her breast band and the leggings she wore under her trousers for added warmth. Her father’s amulet of Talos and the arrowhead necklace that Ulfric had given her were missing as well.

 _What happened to me?_ she thought dazedly, trying to grasp at her thoughts. _Where am I?_

Attempting to lift her head again, the Dragonborn forced her neck to bend back as far as it would go. Her skull cracked against the wall and suddenly, she realized that she was kneeling on the floor with her hands and feet shackled to the wall and a cloth gag tied tightly over her mouth.

Everything came rushing back to her: the meeting with Maven, the negotiations, the drugged wine, the Thalmor soldiers...

 _I’ve been captured._ She shivered violently– not just from the chill biting into her skin, but from dread at what she remembered last: a pair of cruel, piercing golden eyes.

_He was always watching her._

_She felt his eerie gaze on her constantly: coolly assessing, admiring, searching out her vulnerabilities. Even in sleep – or attempted sleep – she could feel his presence on the other side of the bars of her cell, just close enough to threaten, to remind her of her own helplessness._

_There was no light where she was. This was Oblivion, and the only light to be found here was those golden eyes._

All of the air in Kajsa’s lungs vanished. _Gods and Daedra, it’s_ him – _no – no, this_ has _to be a nightmare – this is no nightmare – it’s real; it’s real – it can’t be – not again –_

The opening of an iron door, hinges squeaking and bars rattling, grated on her ears and then stung them sharply as the door was slammed shut. Light, prowling footsteps brushed over the floor towards her. Her eyes squeezed shut again, even tighter than before, not wanting to see who was coming.

Suddenly, the Nord woman’s throat closed up as cold fingertips trailed up her throat and underneath her chin, raising it up: a gesture all too familiar to her.

A low, amused chuckle. “Oh, how precious. Closing your eyes will not make me go away, Katarina. I am very much real.”

Swallowing at his caustic mockery, Kajsa opened her eyes as slowly as she could, narrowing them in a fierce glare. _I will be strong. I – I will be. I_ have _to be._

The hood of his Thalmor robes was down, no longer casting a shadow over his face with its pale-yellow coloring and its handsome, sharp features so typical of Altmer men: straight nose, pointed chin and ears, high cheekbones. His long hair had been smoothed back and tied at the nape of his neck in a conservative queue. The only thing that would have made him stand out in a crowd were his eyes: angular and rimmed with thick white lashes, the irises the color of gleaming gold.

His thin lips quirked up at the ends in a fond smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You have not changed much, my dear.”

She only glared more viciously in response.

“I forgot you will not be able to respond.” His fingers left her chin and tapped her lips, still covered by the gag. “Necessary precautions, I am afraid. But do not fear: I will be back soon enough to catch up with you, work permitting.” _Now_ his eyes lit up with a delightedly malicious light. “Then the fun begins. You _do_ remember the lovely time we had a year ago, dearest Katarina?”

The Dragonborn’s stomach turned over, but she kept her expression as fixed as she could. _You won’t get anything from me. Not this time._

Orthorien laughed. “So stolid. So stubborn and defiant.” His fingers dancing along her bare shoulder, over the scars that Alduin had given her, the Altmer leaned in to whisper into her ear. “It will be my greatest pleasure to break you... _again_.”

* * *

“Well, there’s nothing down here out of the ordinary.” Arms akimbo, Brynjolf scanned the cramped secret chamber again, but saw nothing out of place: not the enchanting workstation, not the alchemy lab, not even the soul gems and bowls of alchemical ingredients arranged on the wooden shelves. “Being that it’s a secret chamber, I thought there’d be something more mysterious in here.”

“If you had come while the Butcher was making his lair here, I am sure you would have found something suitably macabre enough for you,” Ulfric said darkly.

The Second laughed uneasily as he stepped back to let the jarl through the narrow doorway, and then closed the doors of the false wardrobe after he’d gone out himself. “I could live without seeing that.”

Ulfric smiled wryly as he emerged into the main room of Hjerim. With a pang in his heart, he realized that it looked much the same as it did the last time he was here, waiting for Kajsa to meet him for dinner. He half-expected to hear a knock at the door, some sign that she was really here, not imprisoned in the Thalmor Embassy on the other end of Skyrim...

He shook his head. _Damn that wishful thinking. She is_ gone, _Ulfric. This is no nightmare; this is really happening._

At the sound of hurried footfalls to the left of him, the jarl turned his head just in time to see Karliah rushing downstairs, clutching something to her chest, and his heart nearly stopped. _She found something._ “What is that?” he asked, pointing.

“I’m not quite sure. I found it in her nightstand drawer upstairs.” The Dunmer cleared a spot at the end of the dining table and dropped her find on the wooden tabletop. “I also found the dagger that I gave to her – the one that I found on the Justiciar’s body – and the note.” She held both things out to him.

Ulfric took them from Karliah and spared the simple steel dagger only a glance before uncrumpling the note and scanning it:

> _Justiciar Ondolemar,_
> 
> _You have disappointed me greatly. First, you disgrace your station by fleeing the Reach like a common craven before the Stormcloaks could take over – and now, you deny ever knowing that the Dragonborn lived in Markarth?_
> 
> _Your pitiful excuses weary me. I am greatly tempted to inform your superiors on Alinor of your cowardice and gross ignorance and leave your fate in their hands; however, I understand that there is another task for you._
> 
> _Report to the Embassy Headquarters in Solitude and meet with the Justiciar there. Carry out his will to the letter, and perhaps there will be a chance of redemption for you._
> 
> _By my hand and seal,_
> 
> _First Emissary Elenwen Saururiil  
>  _

Frowning, he folded up the note again and stepped up to the table beside the Dunmer to see what she had found. It appeared to be a bulging leather folio, kept in check by a length of cord wrapped around it. Tucked under the cord was a small, leather-bound book held shut by a buttoned flap that seemed familiar somehow.

Struggling to keep his breath steady, the jarl undid the cord, setting the book and the note to one side as he did so. A pile of papers and journals, along with a marked-up map, spilled out over the table.

“This will prove quite a bit to sift through,” Karliah commented, arranging some of the contents into a neat pile. “I wonder what they are.”

Ulfric nodded absently, picking up the book from before and opening it up to the first time. Two lines of neat, evenly spaced text pounced on him:

**Thalmor Dossier: Katarina of Solitude**

_On the Dragonborn mercenary-thief, Katarina of Solitude  
_

His breath stuck in his throat with a sudden gasp, and all of the muscles in his body tensed in shock. _This_ has _to be what Nocturnal was talking about._ Hands shaking, the jarl turned the page and forced himself to read onwards.

> **Status:** _Fugitive (Capture Only), Highest Priority, Emissary-Level Approval_
> 
> **Description:** _Female, mixed races (possibly Breton and Nordic), mid-20s_
> 
> **Background:** _Katarina of Solitude first came to our attention in 4E 201 when our Embassy in the Imperial City was robbed by agents of the Cyrodilic branch of the Thieves Guild, seeking highly classified documents for a still-unidentified client. While most of the thieves in question were either captured or killed, one of the thieves, Katarina, escaped with their haul and vanished without a trace. After vigorous questioning of one of the survivors, who confirmed her to be a freelance thief and sellsword affiliated with the Lionheart mercenaries, Justiciar Orthorien Aundae was dispatched to track her down to retrieve what had been stolen and dispose of the thief._
> 
> _Eventually, Katarina was captured just inside the southern border of Skyrim along with her mercenary band. While most of her companions were killed, the Justiciar kept the thief alive for interrogation at nearby Fort Neugrad. Unfortunately, the documents were not in her possession and Katarina proved unwilling to provide their locations at first, but after eventually being broken through torture and deemed “beyond recovery,” she provided all the information possible about the heist. She was sentenced to be executed at Helgen along with a band of Stormcloaks led by Ulfric Stormcloak himself (captured at an ambush at Darkwater Crossing a few days earlier), but was believed to be dead after the dragon attack._
> 
> _Katarina unexpectedly reappeared roughly six months later when she was identified by First Emissary Elenwen as one of the guests at a disastrous breach at a party held at the Thalmor Embassy in Haafingar. As she had been declared dead following the destruction of Helgen and was going under the false name of “Kajsa Red-Blade,” she was not apprehended and succeeded in infiltrating the Embassy, causing her to be stamped as a high-priority target. At peace negotiations at High Hrothgar (which First Emissary Elenwen also attended for a brief time), Katarina was revealed to be the Dragonborn. Thanks to intelligence from our informants, it has been confirmed that she survived her battle with the World-Eater and has subsequently gone on to Windhelm to join the Stormcloaks._
> 
> **Operational Notes:** _Katarina of Solitude is a serious enemy to the Dominion and should be considered armed and extremely dangerous; she has succeeded in slaughtering our execution squads and infiltrating Thalmor headquarters and prisons. Any attempt to capture her (as the missing documents from the Imperial City Embassy are still unaccounted for and it is believed that she has information that is crucial to the success of Operation Priesthood) should be undertaken with extreme caution._
> 
> _Katarina is suspected to have connections with the Skyrim branches of the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood; she is known to be the Harbinger of the Companions and, more recently, a high-ranking soldier with the Stormcloaks. It is highly probable that she is a confidante – or perhaps even a mistress – of Ulfric Stormcloak himself. She has houses in Whiterun and Markarth and an undetermined number of “safe houses” in several unknown locations._
> 
> _Justiciar Orthorien Aundae is currently tasked with this case, and any information about Katarina’s current whereabouts should be immediately given to him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Mentions of PTSD and torture
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	37. Disbelief

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Ulfric turned over the Thalmor dossier in his hands, slowly leafing through the pages with the manner of a drowning man: attempting to tread the frigid water that was choking the life out of his lungs, trying desperately to make sense of the crushing darkness around him before it was too late. Ever since he’d found it two days ago – two days that seemed to drag out endlessly – his words always seemed to die within him and the image underneath his eyelids was always that of the Kajsa in his nightmare, scared and shamed, not her as he’d truly seen her last.

 _Thalmor dossiers have a way of giving one a new perspective to see others in,_ he thought darkly, leaning back in his chair and tightly interlacing his fingers, dropping the book on his lap. _But they also bring more questions than answers._

No matter how many times he’d read every word contained on the dossier’s pages, there were still things that the jarl simply couldn’t make sense of. Who or what had given Kajsa the motivation to steal from the Thalmor Embassy in the Imperial City in the first place? The capital of Cyrodiil was the focus of Thalmor power in the Empire, second perhaps only to Alinor, and it was undoubtedly suicidal to even dream about _infiltrating_ the embassy, let alone stealing from it and making it out alive. It didn’t surprise him that she had been working with the Thieves Guild in Cyrodiil – _once a thief, always a thief, I suppose_ – but what exactly was this “Lionheart” mercenary band?

More seriously, what did the dossier mean when it said that Kajsa was “broken through torture and deemed ‘beyond recovery’”? Ulfric knew all too well of the Thalmor’s cruel methods of interrogation: whippings, brandings, and the more subtle, yet infinitely more unsettling mind games that the torturers played with their hapless prisoners, but he shuddered to think on what this Justiciar Orthorien had done to her. Being a political prisoner-of-war was a far cry from being a thief who’d broken into one of the Thalmor’s embassies and stolen classified documents, and the consequences of her audacity would have surely been much worse than anything Elenwen did to him.

 _Orthorien._ The jarl recognized the name in the dossier from the signature of the note that the young thief – _Rune, I think his name was_ – had retrieved from Maven Black-Briar’s rooms. _It would seem that Kajsa – or_ Katarina _– and he have a history._ His fingers unfurled and his hands clenched unconsciously into white-knuckled fists. _When I find that_ bastard _..._

And then, the final blow: that of her name. “Kajsa,” the name that he called her by, was _not_ her real name – just a childhood nickname that became an alias, one that everyone knew her by. But even though both of her names were closely related, it seemed to Ulfric that they were worlds apart: Katarina, the happy, curious young girl growing up in the criminal heart of Riften, the one Brynjolf had described to him... and Kajsa, the prideful, stubborn Dragonborn mercenary and thief, the secretive woman that brought out the best and the worst in him. Katarina of Solitude and Kajsa Red-Blade were two very different people in the same body.

But there was only one persistent question that kept echoing through his head: _Why did she not tell me about any of this? If she was going to kill Orthorien, if_ that _was the mission she was so worked up about, if her nightmares were of her torture at the hands of that_ monster _... why did she hold out on me?_

 _Because it is what she is used to doing: shouldering the weight of the world, facing mortal danger alone to spare everyone else the burden of the fear,_ he thought grimly, answering his own question. _She was forced to do it when she was fulfilling her destiny as Dragonborn... and she thinks that is what she still has to do._

 _... Or was it because Kajsa – Katarina – whoever she is –_ still _does not trust me enough to tell me the full truth?_

“Jarl Ulfric?”

At the sound of his name, the jarl looked up suddenly, his dark thoughts vanishing for the time being. Karliah was standing at his side, her indigo-skinned hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, eyes full of concern.

“What is it?” he snapped without even thinking about it.

To her credit, the Dunmer did not flinch at his tone now. “You haven’t lent any input to our initial plan since early this afternoon. Are you –?” Her gaze focused on the dossier in his lap. “You _are_ reading it.”

Ulfric sighed exasperatedly, but his breath came out deflated of the irritation he’d meant for it to hold. “I am certain that this is what Nocturnal meant for us to find. It has to have something of importance in it _somewhere_ –” His voice faltered and he looked down at it, the poisonous book resting in his lap, his anger flooding back. _Excuses. Always the excuses._ “It is all I have of her. Her and all of her damn _secrets_ –”

Karliah nodded in understanding, silently cutting him off. “I understand. But your vengeful feelings won’t do you any good right now. Save your rage for the Embassy – and your questions for Kajsa.” She smiled faintly, plucking up the dossier and tucking it under her arm. “Come, Jarl Ulfric. Hear what we’ve come up with so far.”

 _The Dunmer always seems to know the very words that will cut to the heart of the matter..._ Reluctantly, the jarl stood and followed her back to the table that stood, solid and strong, in the center of the war room. Brynjolf and Galmar, the latter in civilian clothing and the former stubbornly remaining in his officer’s armor, stood by it, waiting for the other half of their strange quartet to rejoin them.

Over the past few days, it certainly had been an odd atmosphere that blanketed the Palace of the Kings. For it being such short notice, Jorleif had received the news that there would be guests fairly well, but his steward had nearly keeled over in shock when Karliah had walked through the door. (Ulfric couldn’t help but thank the Nine that Jorleif hadn’t a clue of Brynjolf and Karliah’s profession, because the steward would undoubtedly start making a daily inventory of everything in the palace if he were to find out.) Galmar was still wary of having thieves in the Palace of the Kings, but he’d grudgingly reconciled himself to their presence and even behaved in a halfway civil manner towards Brynjolf; Karliah, on the other hand, he ignored if at all possible. The jarl couldn’t deny that he was still hesitant about the arrangements as well, but if – _when_ the rescue mission was successful, it would be worth the risk.

Ulfric squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, feeling his sense of authority come back to him with his change in posture. “What do you have?”

The Second was the first to speak, shrugging briefly. “It’s not much. Just planning a route for our little jaunt up to the Embassy.”

“It’s still a start,” Karliah said gently.

“Damn right, it’s a start – much more than that!” Galmar interjected indignantly. “Except for the rescue itself, we’ve got everything covered!”

“Let me hear it, then.” The jarl crossed his arms over his chest.

The Nord thief tapped the icon that represented Windhelm on the map. “As soon as the aid from the Dark Brotherhood and the Companions arrives, we’ll set out on the western road with them and a few squads of Stormcloak soldiers. We’ll be able to reach Whiterun by nightfall and rest there, and then we’ll continue on to Fort Sungard. From there, we can surely make it to the Karthspire – and hopefully, we’ll find the Blades there.”

“And after that,” his housecarl continued, “we’ll proceed northward, with or without the Blades. Since Haafingar is still Imperial territory, we’ll have to stay off the roads and go through the mountains. With some tough navigating and a little luck, our route through there should dump us right at the witch-elves’ doorstep.”

 _If our route takes us through the Reach, we will need those soldiers. The hills and caves are crawling with those accursed Forsworn._ “So the Karthspire _is_ in the Reach, then? You confirmed it?”

Galmar snorted. “It’s one of the largest Forsworn camps in the hold. Where else would it be? Although,” he added as an afterthought, frowning, “how do you know the Blades will be _there?_ I can see why you think Red-Blade’s imprisoned in the Embassy, but why would the Blades be in the very heart of the Forsworn’s stronghold?”

“Brynjolf and I did a little digging, and we recovered intelligence that points to it as the location of the ruins of Sky Haven Temple, an ancient Blades stronghold,” Karliah responded smoothly before her comrade could open his mouth. “If they are in Skyrim, the Blades are certain to be there.”

The suspicious furrow in his brow deepened, but the Stormcloak general didn’t question their story. Instead, he turned back to Ulfric. “In any case, we have a plan. We’ll probably need to make a few small adjustments as we go along, but otherwise...” His voice trailed off. “You get the picture.”

The jarl nodded. “It is a good one.” _Better than nothing._ “Now all we have to do is wait for the reinforcements to show up.”

As if on cue, the hollow bang of the double doors out in the main hall echoed through the war room. The four of them glanced at each other, gauging reactions and wondering the same thing: _Is that them? Could it be them already?_

Ulfric was the first to make a move, striding away from the table and down the narrow hallway. Brynjolf and Karliah fell into line behind him, with Galmar reluctantly bringing up the rear. They emerged into the throne room and faced the massive bronze doors, catching their first glimpse of the unknown visitors approaching them.

There were three of the newcomers, all varied in appearance. The first was a solidly built Redguard man, his black beard tied into a knot in a style similar to Galmar’s. He was dressed in the traditional clothing of the Alik’r – loose brown breeches, brocade vest, laced boots – but the hood wound around his head was a deep red instead of the usual blue. A scimitar, one of the famed “curved swords” of the warriors of Hammerfell, rested on his hip.

The second was a gangly, pale Imperial man who kept glancing around the room and muttering under his breath to himself. Stringy flame-colored hair poked out from under his jester’s hat; he was clad in red-and-black motley, suspiciously stained in some places, from head to toe. His fingers drummed nervously on the hilts of his twin ebony daggers.

The third and final one in their party was a tiny Breton girl no more than nine or ten years old. She was nearly dwarfed by a fur wrap that was much too large for her, but she wore a simple red tunic with a white skirt underneath it. Neatly groomed, bright-copper hair fell around her narrow shoulders. Unlike her companions, she carried no weapon, but as she drew nearer, the jarl saw that her eyes were the color of freshly-spilled blood: the mark of a vampire.

Brynjolf was the first to speak, something akin to brotherly affection in his voice. “Hello again, little lass.”

“Bryn.” The vampire smiled, displaying daintily pointed teeth. “Even under the circumstances, it’s good to see you again.”

The Second nodded, sobering slightly. “You too.”

A pitying look on her face, the little girl ran forward and hugged him around the legs. “Oh, _do_ cheer up, Bryn. We _are_ going to get my sister back.”

Ulfric frowned. _“Sister”? But they don’t look anything alike..._

“Aye. That’s what we’re all here for, little lass.” The Nord thief forced a smile and patted her on the head.

Returning the gesture, the vampire released her hold on his legs and turned to Karliah. “And you must be Karliah. I’ve heard a bit about _you._ ” Her tone was teasing.

The Dunmer bobbed her head in acknowledgment. “Through Delvin, I assume?”

A slightly sheepish expression came over the little girl’s face. “Del _is_ unusually chatty, even for a fence.”

“That he is,” Karliah laughed. “I’ve heard plenty about you from him. You _are_ Babette, correct?”

“Guilty as charged.” The vampire glanced at a hesitant Ulfric and a glowering Galmar, and then back at Brynjolf. “Where are your legendary manners, Bryn? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Now, Brynjolf’s smile grew genuine. “Of course, little lass.” He motioned to the jarl and his housecarl. “Babette, this is Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, and his housecarl – dammit, I _still_ don’t know your name.”

“Galmar Stone-Fist,” the Stormcloak general answered grudgingly.

“Right. I’ll remember that.” The Second motioned back to the little girl. “Jarl Ulfric, Galmar: this is Babette.”

The housecarl grunted something unintelligible. Ulfric, determined to be polite regardless of the fact that she made his skin prickle in uneasiness, bowed slightly.

“Pleased to meet you all.” Babette’s crimson eyes lingered on the jarl thoughtfully for a moment. “Jarl Ulfric... from where do you know my sister?”

“Say, Babette,” Brynjolf jumped in before Ulfric could give an answer, “who are _your_ friends? More Brotherhood members?”

The vampire shrugged. “When I told them where I was going and why, everyone wanted to come along and lend a hand. From the sound of it, you four will need all the help you can get.” Her eyes burned with conviction. “The Brotherhood may not be here in full force, but between myself and these two, we are more than capable of aiding you on your mission.”

“Oh, yes!” The assassin in jester’s motley nodded emphatically. “Loyal Cicero wants to save the Listener! Brave, noble Cicero would give his life to –”

“Oh, enough with your babbling, Cicero; you know she’s not the Listener any more,” the Redguard interrupted curtly, stepping forward. “I’m Nazir, second-in-command of the Dark Brotherhood. The nutcase to my left is Cicero. And you’ve already met Babette, our resident alchemist.” He faced the jarl and his housecarl, crossing his arms. “What’s our role in all this?”

“We had only planned for your vampire friend to join us, but I’m sure we can find something for you to do,” Galmar said gruffly.

“This mission will likely require a good deal of stealth, as well as taking care of obstacles in our path quietly and efficiently,” Karliah added quickly. “Since you’re all from the Dark Brotherhood, I would assume that you, Babette, and your... ‘nutcase’ colleague are more than capable of that.”

Nazir laughed heartily. “By Sithis, that sounds more like it!” He abruptly reverted back to his brusquely business-like manner. “When do we depart for Haafingar?”

“As soon as the Companions show up,” Ulfric answered. “Then we leave as soon as possible.”

“The Companions?” Cicero squealed delightedly. “Maybe talented Cicero will finally get to perform for them!”

Ignoring the jester, the Redguard assassin raised his eyebrows. “The Companions, eh? How do you suppose that’ll work, Babette: thieves and assassins and warriors all in the same party?”

“I’m sure it will be interesting,” the little girl said evenly, “but we need to remember why we’ve all come together in the first place. If anyone’s going to be more devoted to the rescue of Kajsa – who, unless I’m mistaken, is their Harbinger – it’s going to be the Companions.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when one of the main doors opened again, the night wind briefly howling through the throne room before the closing door shut it out again. A Nord man – stocky build, scruffy beard and long brown hair, red war paint underneath his eyes – wearing sleeveless Thieves Guild leathers strode towards the seven of them, something clutched in his hand.

Brynjolf frowned in recognition. “Thrynn? What are you doing here? I thought you were –”

“– delivering Delvin’s message to the Companions, I know,” the other thief said wearily, holding out the sealed letter in his hand. “I have a response, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Taking the document, the Second picked off the seal, unfolded the parchment, and scanned it anxiously. Brow furrowing, he read it again, and then for a third time. “That’s going to throw our plans off,” he murmured, refolding it.

“What is it, Brynjolf?” Karliah asked fearfully.

The Nord thief sighed heavily, looking up. “Read it.” He handed it over to the jarl, who unfolded it again, his eyes settling on the well-formed letters on the paper:

> _To the Jarl of Windhelm,_
> 
> _It is regrettable to hear of what has befallen Kajsa, but I am afraid that we cannot help you._ Unlike _our Harbinger, the Companions make it a rule to remain neutral in conflict. Seeing as you are at the heart of this civil war here in Skyrim, for us to be associated with you – even for a task that has nothing to do with the war – is unwise and not in the Companions’ best interests._
> 
> _I wish you luck in your endeavor and hope that you recover Kajsa unharmed. Perhaps this will teach her to stay out of your vain, petty power struggle and to attend to her duties as our Harbinger._
> 
> _Vilkas, Acting Harbinger of the Companions  
> _

Rage boiled up within him, and the jarl tore the letter in halves, in fourths, and crumpled up the pieces in his clenched fists, dropping them to the floor. _So much for their precious honor. Too concerned with saving their own skins than springing to the rescue of their shield-sister – their_ Harbinger _, no less!_ He shook his head in disgust. _This_ Vilkas _must have his eye on her position. “Acting Harbinger”... ha!_

“What is it?” Karliah asked quietly.

“They will not come.” He forced every word out through gritted teeth. “They refuse to associate themselves with me because of the war.”

Galmar blinked in surprise, but displayed no other outward sign of his emotions. Karliah glanced anxiously over at Brynjolf, who was picking at the dirt under his nails with a bleak expression. Babette looked alarmed, while Nazir just shrugged in indifference. Cicero appeared absolutely disconsolate. Thrynn caught the Second’s eye, who nodded in confirmation and waved a hand tiredly; the other thief quickly made his departure.

Ulfric sighed harshly, the sound seeming as loud as a thunderclap in the silence. _We will need warriors. Soldiers are not enough; we will need professional, experienced warriors like the Companions on our side. I do not know what Delvin said in his letter, but the Companions obviously have no idea of how much we need them._

Through his brooding fury, an idea suddenly came to him. “Brynjolf?”

The Nord thief looked up. “Yes, Jarl Ulfric?”

“In your plan of our route to the Embassy that you outlined earlier, you mentioned that we would be passing by Whiterun?”

“Correct, but why –?”

Judging by the look on Galmar’s face, understanding had begun to dawn. “What are you planning, Ulfric?”

“An extended stop in Whiterun.” The jarl’s face was grimly resolute. “When we journey on to the Reach, we are going to have some of the Companions in our party – come death or Sovngarde.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Don't mess with a Nord on a mission; that's all I can say.
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	38. Mixed Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [pixelartlinda](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr who has drawn some absolutely fantastic fanart of Kajsa and Ulfric - I saw them yesterday, and I haven't stopped smiling since! (There's some sketches **[here](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/post/124927754418/now-look-what-you-made-me-do-brunetteauthorette)** and a full-color portrait **[here](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/post/124996879163/i-have-a-problem-this-is-just-all-i-want-to-draw)** , and both are _amazing._ )
> 
> Anyway: on with the chapter!

Though he had heard stories about Jorrvaskr and the Five Hundred Companions for as long as he could remember, Ulfric was a little unprepared for the famed mead hall itself. Even in the shadow of the grandeur of Dragonsreach, Jorrvaskr held its own with its low roof formed from the hull of an ancient warship and ringed with shields, the low stone steps and the wooden archway flanked by carved dragons’ heads that heralded the entrance, and the craggy rock outcropping looming over the mead hall – the stones that held the mysterious Skyforge, the very reason that Jorrvaskr was built here in the first place. It had stood the test of time and looked as though it would for many more centuries to come.

Under normal circumstances, if he had been passing through the Wind District on his way up to Dragonsreach to conduct business with Balgruuf, the jarl would always save time for a reverent nod towards Jorrvaskr and the Shrine of Talos at the foot of the stairs leading to it, out of respect to the legacy of Ysgramor. But this late morning, he found himself standing at the doors of the mead hall – closer than he’d ever gone before – gathering his thoughts and steeling himself for whatever might come his way. He was alone – Galmar, the Nightingales, the Dark Brotherhood assassins, and the other soldiers were camped by the stables outside Whiterun due to their numbers – but he was armed, war axe on one hip and Queen Freydis’ sword on the other: just in case. _Though I would much prefer it not to come down to a fight._

Galmar had volunteered to tag along to watch his back, but Ulfric had turned his housecarl’s offer down. Now, doubt and dread were creeping back into his mind, and the jarl wished for a brief moment that he had someone at his side.

_There is no point in petty regrets now. Just go in – and have a word or two with Vilkas._ Smiling grimly, Ulfric opened one of the elaborately carved wooden doors and walked in.

Compared to the chilly autumn air outside, Jorrvaskr was a good deal warmer, due to the blazing fire in the center of the main floor. Wooden tables, laden with food and drink, ringed the crackling fire pit on three sides. Everywhere were the colors of the Companions, red and gold: the rugs on the stone floor, the banners hanging from the wooden pillars underneath stuffed stags’ heads, the bunting dangling from the beams of the arched ceiling amid the bronze chandeliers. The mead hall seemed to reflect the spirit of the warriors under its roof: honorable, courageous, and loyal.

From the looks of it, most of the Companions were in the main hall this morning. One of them, a bearded Nord in leather armor, had just left through another set of doors across from the jarl. Upon seeing the jarl, the shield-brother he’d been sitting by, a Dunmer wearing hide armor and sporting a topknot, scowled and immediately left. Two other women sitting at one of the tables, one a muscular Nord and the other a slight Imperial, glanced up briefly before immediately returning to their meals.

The final two Companions were both Nords, but it was clear that they enjoyed a higher position in Jorrvaskr than the others. One, a massive, brawny man with dark-brown razor stubble and long hair, was decked in steel armor – tiered shoulder guards and all – with black war paint around his eyes. The other was a tall red-haired woman with three streaks of green war paint across her freckled face; the leather armor that she wore was reminiscent of that of the ancient Nord warriors, and hid very little of her lithe figure. They had been conversing quietly by the fire pit, but upon the jarl’s entrance, they both straightened up and faced him.

The male Companion was first to speak, his voice startlingly deep, even for a man of his size. “So _you’re_ Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Ulfric nodded. “I am. And you are?”

“I’m Farkas.” He stepped forward and shook the jarl’s hand with vigor before gesturing to the woman at his side. “And this is Aela, called Huntress. We’re both members of the Circle.”

_That clears up one mystery._ “It is good to make your acquaintance.”

“Yours too.” Farkas smiled, the merry expression at odds with his intimidating appearance.

Aela had been scrutinizing him carefully with uncanny silvery eyes throughout this exchange, but now she spoke in a voice full of an authoritative, rich timbre. “Why have you come to Jorrvaskr, Jarl Ulfric?” The question was not polite, but rather challenging.

“I have come to... _speak_ to your Acting Harbinger. Vilkas.”

Farkas frowned. “Why do you want to speak with –?”

“I expect we’ll find out soon enough, icebrain.” The Huntress looked back over her shoulder to address the other two Companions. “Njada, Ria: go out into the training yard with Torvar and Athis and stay there until we say otherwise. Farkas –” she whipped her head back around “– go get your brother.”

The other Circle member nodded and shouldered his way past her, heading for a downwards-leading flight of stairs to the far right of the hall. Hastily, the two remaining Companions left the table and exited through the back doors.

Aela turned back to Ulfric, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her head to the side in wary contemplation. Not about to be intimidated by her eerie stare, the jarl forced himself to stay where he was. _But dear gods, her_ eyes _... those cannot be natural..._

The Companion laughed suddenly. “If you’re scared of _me_ , then I marvel at the fact that you’ve been able to put up with my shield-sister for as long as you have.” She sobered slightly. “Is that why you’re here? Kajsa?”

“That is a part of it,” he answered. _How did she –?_

Pursing her lips in thought, the Huntress looked him over again, her gaze lingering on his weapons for a brief moment. “You are a fool if you think you can challenge the Companions and win, Jarl Ulfric.”

_I may not be looking for an actual fight, but there most definitely will be a confrontation._ “It never hurts to be prepared.”

The Nord woman shrugged indifferently. “Even if they’re not Skyforge Steel, I’m sure they’re fine weapons. I only doubt your ability to use them. A sword is only as good as the one who wields it.”

“And a band of warriors is only as good as the one leading them,” Ulfric snapped back, impatient with her apathy.

Aela narrowed her eyes at his outburst and one hand flew to the dagger resting on her thigh, but then her eyes widened slightly in understanding. “So your quarrel is only with Vilkas and not us,” she said quietly, scowling. “I should have expected as much.”

The jarl was about to ask her what she meant when he heard the sound of a door slamming and then the clanking of steel as Farkas jogged back up the stairs and approached them hesitantly. Aela turned around slightly, and Ulfric turned his attention to the newcomer that had arrived with Farkas.

It was another Nord man, broad-shouldered and not quite as burly as Farkas, but rather leanly muscled instead. He wore a kind of armor that the jarl had never seen before: made of steel and shaped with curving designs and wolf motifs, trimmed with fur. But regardless of build or armor, the similarities to Farkas were unmistakable. He had the same kind of war paint around his silver-blue eyes, but his hair was cropped shorter and much neater than his brother’s. Yet his features were grim and hard, holding nothing of Farkas’s easygoing cheer. There was no doubt in Ulfric’s mind that this man was dangerous and more than capable of killing when he had to.

As soon as he caught sight of the jarl, Vilkas’s mouth flattened into a displeased line. “Jarl Ulfric.” His voice was not as deep as his brother’s, but more heavily accented instead. “I thought I made it very clear in my answer that you were not welcome in Jorrvaskr.”

Anger flared up in Ulfric again. _By Talos, the man is even worse in person!_ “What you sent me was no answer,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “That was an _excuse_ , and an insult, to boot.”

“You have no honor left to insult, _king-killer_ ,” the other retorted coolly, but his eyes were steely. “The Companions do. What makes you think that we would willingly consort with thieves and assassins and _traitors_?”

“I had thought that the plight of your Harbinger – the _real_ Harbinger – would have been enough to rally you.” The jarl’s voice was rising with every word. “But it seems that you are content to keep your ill-gotten position and to stand by without a care as your shield-sister lies in chains!”

Vilkas’s nostrils flared in anger, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword, but Farkas grabbed his brother’s arm before he could draw his blade. “Brother, what’s this about Kajsa?”

“Yes,” Aela chimed in, her eyes just as cold as the Acting Harbinger’s. “I, too, would like to know of what the jarl speaks.”

Ulfric spoke before his opponent could, his voice flat and bleak. “The Dragonborn was captured by the Thalmor during our campaign in Riften. I was organizing a coalition to carry out a rescue mission, and I wrote to the Companions to ask for aid.” His tone turned disgusted. “But I found no help there, only pathetic pretexts and the unspeakable suggestion that it would teach the Harbinger to know her place.”

Farkas looked to his brother, then to the jarl, and then back at his brother. “Vilkas... is that true?”

The Acting Harbinger sighed, and for a moment, contrition flickered in his eyes. “Brother, let me explain –”

“There is nothing to explain!” the Huntress snarled, cutting him off. “You have _always_ harbored jealousy for Kajsa, from the moment she walked into Jorrvaskr and asked to join our number! You resented her, someone you deemed unworthy, for winning Kodlak’s approval and being made Harbinger instead of _you_! And now, you seek to make sure that she will never return and unseat you from the throne you’ve built for yourself!”

Vilkas’ countenance hardened again. “I would hardly liken the position of Harbinger to that of a jarl or a king. There are no leaders in the Companions, Aela, and you know that.”

“Oh, but you have made it such a position, _Acting Harbinger._ ” Her face was twisted in fury, but her eyes were alight with a sort of malice, that of a predator backing its prey into a place from which it could not escape. “How else can you explain refusing the potential whelps who don’t meet your impossible standards, or getting rid of the one new blood that could have defeated you in single combat and perhaps even succeeded you and Kajsa one day? You have only shunned the power lying dormant within you to seize an even more destructive form of it.”

“The Companions need a strong guiding figure to keep them in line,” Vilkas growled. “Otherwise, dissenters like you, _Huntress,_ challenge the order of things and give rise to more trouble than there may have been in the first place. You have the favor of the Harbinger, and you grow bolder by the day because of it. If you are not careful, you may actually succeed in tearing Jorrvaskr apart as you endeavored to do so before!”

Aela’s face whitened almost instantly as all of her spite drained from it, supplanted by pain and outrage. “How dare you insinuate that what happened with the Silver Hand – with _Skjor_ – with Kodlak – that it was _my_ fault! If anything, you and your selfish piety made it even worse!”

“ _Not_ piety: courage, loyalty, and self-restraint, values that every Companion should hold dear – not the brashness and underhandedness that you and the Harbinger are so fond of.” By now, the Acting Harbinger bristled with righteous anger and conviction. “I do not deny that Kajsa is a fine warrior in her own right, but the old man was grievously mistaken to make her Harbinger. She does not care for the Companions and she has no honor. She is no true shield-sister and should not be regarded as such!”

“Enough!” Farkas thundered suddenly, causing both of the Circle members to stop arguing and whip their heads around to face him. Having caught their attention, the Companion cleared his throat and continued in a lower voice. “Aela, brother: re-opening old wounds isn’t going to help matters any. All that we should be concerned with is what we’re going to do right now.” He glanced towards the jarl. “I suppose that you came here looking for warriors to help you.”

Ulfric nodded in relief. _Thank the gods... it would seem that the Acting Harbinger does not speak the collective opinion of the Companions very well._

“Then _I_ will join you, Jarl Ulfric.” Aela’s voice rang out, composed and commanding once again. “Unlike _some_ in the Circle, I regard Kajsa as my shield-sister and I have no intention of abandoning her to the Thalmor.”

Vilkas laughed harshly. “Aela, this is madness. Regardless of what I think about the Harbinger, it is nothing short of suicidal to storm a Thalmor-occupied fortress.”

“Then you’ll be glad to be rid of me, won’t you?” the Huntress retorted.

The Acting Harbinger sighed. “Aela, _listen_ –”

“I’m done listening to your excuses, Vilkas. Kajsa may not be around all the time, but at least she’s honest with me.” With that, Aela stepped up and stood at the jarl’s side, crossing her arms defiantly.

Vilkas turned to his brother, frustration plain in his eyes. “Well, brother? Are you staying here – or are you going with _them_?”

Farkas swallowed. “Brother, I just want to know... why didn’t you consult us about what to do?”

The other’s shoulders slumped slightly and he looked away. When his words came out, they were firmly resolute. “When I read Jarl Ulfric’s letter, it was as if someone had just told me the Battle of Whiterun would be repeated again and the Companions were torn between both sides once more. I did what was best for Jorrvaskr, for the Companions: to remain neutral. That is our way.” A note of desperation crept into his voice. “Don’t you understand, brother?”

The larger Nord frowned in confusion. “But what about Kajsa?”

“She has nothing to do with this,” Vilkas snapped.

“But – she has _everything_ to do with this!” Farkas said. “Forget about whether Aela’s accusations are true or not, and damn neutrality! Kajsa’s still our Harbinger, and she’s still my friend. You always said that we take care of our own in the Companions... and... and...” He glanced back nervously at Ulfric and Aela. “I guess that’s why I’ll be coming along, too.”

Vilkas gaped for an instant before his mouth snapped shut again. “Fine. If you and Aela want to throw away your lives on the likes of _her_ –”

“But I think you should come as well,” his brother finished.

The Huntress laughed scornfully. “Do you have no memory of the argument that your brother and I just had not a minute ago, icebrain? He doesn’t _want_ to come and he _won’t_ come. You’re wasting your breath.”

“But he should!” Farkas protested, turning back to Vilkas. “You’re the best at strategy among us; I bet you could come up with a plan that would keep all of us alive! Besides, it wouldn’t be right to only have two of the three members of the Circle along.”

“But the post of Acting Harbinger –”

“Eorlund can take care of it. _Please,_ brother,” he pleaded, “come with us. You can’t just stay behind like this.” He took a deep breath. “And – and Kajsa would want you to come. She needs you, brother, now more than ever.”

Ulfric frowned in alarm. _What is the meaning of that statement?_

Vilkas was silent for a moment. Finally, he shook his head. “I need time to think about this, Farkas. This – this _folly_ is not something I can rush into blindly.”

“So... you might come?” Farkas asked eagerly.

The Acting Harbinger did not reply; instead, he turned away and headed for the stairs that he’d come up, vanishing down them.

Chewing his lip, his brother faced the jarl and the other member of the Circle again. “He’ll come around. I know it.”

“Vilkas is as stubborn as a mule,” Aela said, her voice hollow and devoid of any rancor. “I’d rather have him on our side, too, but he won’t join us, Farkas.”

“How could he not?” Farkas argued. “He and Kajsa may have had their disagreements in the past, but I thought they were all over that! I never – I never imagined that – that he could be like this...” His voice trailed off as he looked back towards the stairs. “Why does he hate her so much? And why _now_ , of all times?”

_Why, indeed,_ Ulfric mused. _This... “Vilkas” person seemed straightforward at first, but it would seem that he poses more questions than answers._

_Not unlike Kajsa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	39. Motivations

Evening was beginning to cloak the rugged, rocky mountains of the Reach, the snowcapped peaks dimming to craggy, looming shadows in the distance underneath the darkening, cloudless sky – and as night fell, so did the temperatures. Outside the sheltering walls of Fort Sungard, the signal fire blazing up from the squat stone brazier was the only thing that offered both light and warmth, and Ulfric welcomed both. There was no one else present on the small circular outlook outside the fort’s shrine to Talos but him, but after the hustle and bustle of the past few days, the jarl was beginning to miss the relative silence of the Palace of the Kings.

A day and a half had passed since he had left Whiterun with the coalition, which now could boast all three of the Circle members that had been present in Jorrvaskr at the time. Aela had been the first to arrive out at the stables, followed not long after by Farkas and Vilkas. While the first two Companions had greeted the others with all of the graciousness they could muster – Farkas’ had seemed less feigned than Aela’s – the Acting Harbinger had only graced the party with a curt nod before attending to his horse. Ulfric hadn’t been expecting Vilkas to show up, and judging by the pensive scowl on the Companion’s face that deepened whenever his eyes happened to pass over the Nightingales or the assassins, the jarl wasn’t entirely sure why Vilkas had even bothered to come along.

Regardless of the thickening tensions, the largely silent journey on the westward road to Fort Sungard had seemed to drag on for the whole day. The soldiers that brought up the front and the rear of the party were noticeably on edge, constantly keeping an eye out for any sudden raids by the Forsworn. Even though they ran into no trouble, everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief when the coalition finally reached Fort Sungard – a massive, crumbling old fortress sprawled over the peak of one of the many mountains that covered the landscape – in the late afternoon. The silence had pervaded even then over the short, makeshift dinner that the garrison had hastily put together, and then as the tightly knit factions abruptly left for their sleeping quarters.

This morning, Ulfric, Galmar, and the others had gathered together in the main tower room to make plans for the expedition to the Karthspire to find Sky Haven Temple and, hopefully, the Blades. The eight of them (Babette and Cicero had not joined them; the two assassins had been out gathering alchemical ingredients all morning so Babette could get started on brewing potions that afternoon) had crowded around the rickety wooden table, peering at the faded map of the Reach, tossing ideas – and the occasional barb – back and forth. However, the most contentious words were saved for debating strategy.

“We have numbers on our side,” Galmar had argued, bushy eyebrows low over his narrowed eyes, “along with accomplished, well-equipped fighters. The Forsworn are scattered and largely untrained; if we surprise them with one crushing assault, we’ll be able to wipe out those godless little bastards without much trouble.”

“Therein lies the secret to their survival,” Brynjolf had pointed out. “There may not be as many of them as there were twenty years ago, but their guerilla tactics are unpredictable and devastating.”

“And let’s not forget that some have command of dark and powerful magic, which can potentially do much more... _unpalatable_ things to a person than a blade or an arrow.” Nazir had muttered. “I once got set on fire by a sorcerer. Nasty business, that.”

“You don’t think I already know these things?” the housecarl had demanded. “I’ve fought the Madmen of the Reach before! What I’m saying is that if we take them all out at once, we won’t have any stragglers left to deal with!”

“But your goal could be accomplished with a stealth-based approach,” Karliah had reasoned, tapping the map with one finger. “According to this, the Karthspire camp has only one narrow path leading in, and any assault that comes through there could be easily slaughtered. If we could get some archers to climb up the mountains surrounding the camp –”

“– then those archers could easily pick off the Forsworn in the camp from a distance, without having to worry about magic as much.” Aela had glanced at the Dunmer with a sort of admiration in her eerie eyes. “I like that line of thought very much.”

“With all due respect, shield-sister,” Farkas had protested, “I know that you’re a fine archer, but arrows are often unreliable. A Forsworn with an arrow in its knee can still cast a spell, but a Forsworn missing its head can’t. I’d rather know if my enemy was truly dead.”

“That’s easy enough to take care of,” Nazir had offered slyly. “If you send myself and my comrades in during the night, we can clear the way for you. Regardless of how deadly a target might be, they’re an easy victim when sleeping.”

Farkas and Aela had both objected to that idea immediately, citing that killing someone who was asleep, enemy or not, was cowardly and dishonorable. The allegations were enough to rile up the Nightingales and Nazir, as well as providing an opportunity for Galmar to loudly proclaim his idea to be the best course of action. A heated argument was not long in ensuing.

Finally, Vilkas, who had been quiet throughout the exchange thus far, had spoken up, his words silencing everyone. “Arrows may be enough to take down ordinary Forsworn, but Briarhearts and those accursed hagravens will not be felled so easily. Considering the perils that await us, a combination of the two approaches will be the best strategy.”

The combatants glanced at Ulfric, who had been standing authoritatively at the head of the table and listening to the quarrel in dismay, to hear his thoughts on the plan. Quite vividly, the jarl remembered glancing over at the Acting Harbinger to assess him and being surprised by what he found. There had been no animosity in his eyes, no taunting challenge of _accept my plan; you know I’m right..._ only a flatly calculating glint: planning, anticipating, waiting for his move.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ulfric had nodded. “Karliah, Galmar: the two of you can go over the map and coordinate a joint plan of attack on the Karthspire camp. Find a way to make it work.”

Later, out of the corner of his eye, as he watched his housecarl and the Dunmer work out the kinks in the plan with half-hearted input from the others, he caught Vilkas’s gaze. The Companion had tilted his head in a near-imperceptible, yet approving nod.

The jarl wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or uneasy about the gesture, but he’d settled for relief – for the time being. Even though the four different factions had only been together for a day and a half, the tensions were already building up: Galmar and the Companions on one side, and the Nightingales and the Dark Brotherhood on the other. Warriors and criminals: two wildly different factions in the same room and – and _trying_ to work together.

And though at any other time, Ulfric would have identified with the former, he now found himself suspended in the precarious middle, attempting to hold them all together. _But it is not me that is keeping them together... it is Kajsa._

_Although I cannot say that about Vilkas with much certainty..._

“Thinking on something, Jarl Ulfric?”

The jarl looked behind him. Vilkas stood in the gap between the walls of Fort Sungard, fully armored and with his greatsword of Skyforge steel strapped to his back. His arms were crossed in a nonchalant, seemingly casual position, but his feet were spread slightly apart, ready to spring into a fighting stance.

“Indeed. I am.” Ulfric turned around fully, straightening up to his full height and forcing his shoulders back. _It seems like the only advantage I have on this man is that I am at least half a head taller than he._ “What brings you out here?”

“The quiet. My brother and Aela and the others are preparing for the coming assault.” The Companion’s silver-blue eyes coolly scanned the jarl. “I see that you have already readied yourself.”

In the council of earlier, the one thing that Karliah and Galmar had agreed on without question was that the attack on the Karthspire camp should come tonight, when they had a greater chance of remaining unseen. Since that afternoon, Fort Sungard had been bustling with activity: Babette churning out potions and passing them off to Cicero in order for him to stock satchels; Farkas, Vilkas, and Galmar sharpening their weapons; Brynjolf and Nazir sparring against each other; Aela and Karliah practicing archery with the targets in the courtyard. In the meantime, Ulfric had retrieved his steel plate armor – one of the only real items of value he’d brought with him – from his horse and brought it up to the fort’s blacksmith to ensure it was still sound. Even after so many years since the reclamation of Markarth, when he’d first commissioned it, the armor still held together. The jarl wore it now, with a banded iron shield slung over his back, and his war axe and Queen Freydis’ sword sheathed at his side. Even after spending the whole afternoon walking around in it, the weight of the steel enclosing his body still felt strangely foreign to him. _It has been much too long since I have been in a true battle._

“That’s good armor,” Vilkas commented. “It’s of an older make, but it looks like it has held up nicely. Steel plate can take quite a bit in any case.” His eyes drifted to the jarl’s weapons, first the war axe and then the sword. “Backup?”

Ulfric nodded. “I had rather not lose either of these, but it is better to be prepared over all else. If I lose both, I still have my _thu’um_ , limited as it may be, as well as my shield.”

The ends of the Companion’s mouth twitched into what could have been a smile. “‘Be prepared over all else’... spoken like a seasoned warrior.”

_Who is this man? It is certainly not the Vilkas I met in Jorrvaskr._ “If you do not mind my asking, why did you suggest the combined plan of attack in the first place? I would have thought that you would favor my housecarl’s line of thinking.”

Vilkas’s slight smile faded, the man’s face reverting to its usual grim and impassive state. “Normally, I would have. What the Redguard would have us do is nothing less than craven. But...”

“But what?” the jarl prompted.

The Circle member shrugged, the gesture surprisingly casual for such a stiff, unyielding man. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I may be a warrior, but I am a scholar and a strategist as well. Most in Jorrvaskr think with their hearts, and most do not last for long. I think with my head, and it has kept me alive. Even though I find the idea of stabbing someone in the back and the idea of charging in without a plan to be equally abhorrent, the two together in one carefully coordinated move could work. Besides,” he added, “if one approach had been favored over the other, one camp would not have worked with the other and your cause would have been sunk.”

_What a coldly practical man this is._ “Is that why you have come?” Ulfric asked sharply. “To offer up your counsel and save us all from ourselves, to shine your light of wisdom and experience over the proceedings?”

“You may mock me now, Jarl Ulfric,” the other growled, “but you need my help more than you realize. You just cannot see it yet.”

“Then make me see it,” the jarl snapped, crossing his arms tightly. “Show me why you are _invaluable_ to this party. Speak plainly; I am not a patient man by nature and I have even less patience with you at the moment.”

Lacing his fingers behind his back and straightening up, Vilkas looked his challenger directly in the eye. “You may scorn to admit it, Jarl Ulfric, but you and I are not all that different. We are warriors. We value the same things: tradition, honor, loyalty. We may go about achieving our goals in different ways, but at the end of the day, we are Nords – the children of Skyrim, of Kyne, of Talos – and we fight for what we believe to be true. There are those like you and I... and then there is Kajsa.

“She is a warrior, but she hides in the shadows and waits to strike instead of taking the fight to the enemy. She is Dragonborn, but she does not respect her legacy. She is loyal to nothing but the gold she is paid to take a side. She honors nothing and no one. She is everything a Companion should not be... and yet she is Harbinger.” He exhaled harshly, almost angrily.

“I see it now,” Ulfric murmured, almost to himself. “You are jealous of her.”

The Acting Harbinger laughed, but it held no humor. “What is there to be jealous of? I already knew I would never become Harbinger; Kodlak had said that the position was not to be mine, but he never told me who would take his place after he died – and I certainly was not expecting that it was to belong to the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild and an agent of the Dark Brotherhood.”

That gave the jarl some pause. “You speak like you had known of her ties to them before this coalition formed.”

“I had.” Vilkas’s face darkened further. “I’d had my suspicions about her for a long time, ever since she proved worthy of being a Companion... and they were confirmed when some of Kajsa’s correspondence with the Guild and the Brotherhood fell into my hands on accident. They said nothing of her designs, why she was with the Companions, but I knew that whatever they were, they could not possible bode well.

“I confronted Kodlak with this information, and I asked him to pass judgment. ‘I was right about her, Master,’ I told him. ‘Her kind does not belong in Jorrvaskr.’

“The Harbinger looked at me, and he said very simply, ‘Someone like Kajsa does not walk amongst us mortals every day. She has a higher calling that she is bound to heed, and we must do all we can to help her fulfill her destiny. You must trust in her, Vilkas. She is the world’s last hope.’” The Companion’s laced fingers now clenched into fists. “But how could I have possibly trusted her after what happened not _moments_ after that, after the Silver Hand stormed Jorrvaskr and murdered Kodlak? How could she be the hope of _anyone_ , let alone a dying man that she wasn’t there to defend?

“She returned from wherever she had been in the dead of that night, blood still on her armor and weapons, not saying where she’d gone. I confronted her then, and I told her what I thought of her. I told her that she’d failed all of us – especially Kodlak. And – and then –” His face, once twisted with remembered anger, now sobered. “She lost all control of herself. Started screaming at me and I yelled back. And then we fought – not with words or with swords, but with our fists. If Aela and my brother hadn’t pulled us apart, we probably would have killed each other.” He laughed bitterly. “I should count myself lucky that I’m still here to tell the tale. I gave as good as I got, but I was the only one of us going down to the Temple of Kynareth after I got Shouted into a display case. And that’s when I realized that Kodlak was right. Kajsa was the Dragonborn.

“The days after that, we didn’t speak at all. The other Companions tried their best to keep us apart for fear that we might actually succeed in killing each other. During that time, I was consumed with an emotion that I’d never felt so strongly in my entire life: vengeance. Not only had the Silver Hand murdered Kodlak, they had stolen all of our fragments of Wuuthrad, and I was determined to get them back and kill every last one of the bastards that had taken so much from us.

“But I couldn’t go without a shield-sibling, and my options became limited very quickly. The whelps wouldn’t be up to the task, and even though my brother and Aela supported me, they didn’t understand why I would throw away my life to carry out revenge, something that Kodlak despised. So I sought out Kajsa for the first time in a week and I asked her to come along.

“Even before Kodlak’s death, we had never gotten along, and we certainly never considered ourselves friends, regardless of the level of skill we shared. I expected to be turned down cold. But I was shocked when she said, ‘I know too well of revenge. Once you first feel the urge, it can never be eased until justice is carried out – whether you live to see it through or not.’”

_Was she talking about killing that Justiciar when she spoke of revenge?_ “So she came along with you?” Ulfric asked. 

The Acting Harbinger nodded. “Though not the approach I would have taken, her style of fighting proved surprisingly useful. There were a lot of Silver Hand in Driftshade Refuge and a good fourth of them were taken out with a well-placed arrow from the shadows or that katana of hers in the back. She showed no mercy towards them that night, but...” He hesitated. “I suppose that whole mission was when I discovered that there was more to her than what I thought, that she actually had a heart somewhere under that icy facade.” He laughed humorlessly.

“We talked for quite a bit on that journey about all sorts of things, and I remember asking her the most pressing question that was on my mind: ‘Who do you think should be the Harbinger now that Kodlak is dead? Perhaps you should lead us, Dragonborn,’ I added, hoping to gauge her reaction.

“She looked at me and she said very simply, ‘The Companions are the heroes of Skyrim, and the Harbinger is always the greatest and most respected of them all. I may be Dragonborn, but I’m no hero – just a scarred sellsword who’s been buffeted around by fate for too long. I’m not meant to be Harbinger, Vilkas.’”

_That sounds like something she would have said._ “But yet she became Harbinger anyway,” the jarl said slowly.

“Kodlak named her as his successor in his journal,” Vilkas said flatly. “She protested, of course, but we all wanted to respect the old man’s wishes in the end. Her sole term of acceptance was that I would become her right-hand man, Acting Harbinger in her absence: a position that I started to take on more and more as the months wore on.

“At first, Kajsa seemed content enough to stay in Jorrvaskr – seeing that the whelps didn’t get into trouble, presiding over meetings of the Circle, even asking for my advice a few times. But then she started to drift, and every time she left Whiterun, there would be a greater and greater period of absence before her return.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “It finally dawned on me what she was doing: she was abandoning her post, leaving me behind to run things for her while she went off on her own little adventures in Skyrim and – and did gods only know what. You might say it’s a blessing in disguise, but I call it shameful.

“And _that_ , Jarl Ulfric, is why you need me along with you and your little coalition. Not solely because of the strategy or the need for cooperation, but because of my leadership. When it seemed like Kajsa had finally left for good to join your Stormcloaks, I was forced to step up and become the leader that Jorrvaskr needed – whether I was meant to be or not.”

Silence fell between them. The only sound that could be heard was the wind that whistled around the walls and toyed with the flames of the signal light.

Finally, Ulfric spoke. “What finally convinced you to come along? I admit, I did not think –”

“– that I would join you?” Vilkas smiled wryly. “To be honest, I didn’t either. But – but after you left, after my anger had cooled, I was able to see past my past grievances with Kajsa and focus on the problem at hand. That was when I realized that I had... _overlooked_ something when I wrote my response to you.

“I won’t lie: I don’t like what the civil war is doing to Skyrim. I’m not loyal to either side. But if Kajsa is the reason why your Stormcloaks are winning – why this war may soon be over – then perhaps if that was accomplished, if those damn Thalmor are wiped out, then this land and its people can finally heal after all the turmoil it has gone through. And no matter my feelings about her, Kajsa’s probably the only person I know who could do that. But she needs to be freed first.”

“Aye,” the jarl replied quietly. “That she does.”

The Acting Harbinger nodded, gazing off into the distance. “We’ve been through a lot together. I helped her with her curse... and now it’s time for her to help me with mine.” The last sentence was almost murmured under his breath.

Before Ulfric could ask him what he meant by that, he heard hurried footsteps coming towards them. Vilkas turned around to face whoever was coming.

It was Brynjolf, in full Nightingale armor with his twin daggers at his side. “We’re getting ready to move out. You better come and saddle your horses.”

“Thank you, Brynjolf,” the jarl said. “We’ll come as soon as we can.”

The Second nodded and strode away. Ulfric made a move to follow him, but then he glanced back at Vilkas: still standing in place by the signal flame and staring out towards the dark mountains. There was something in his eyes that the jarl couldn’t place: a haunted look, but a fiercely determined one.

_I imagine it has hurt his pride to tell me this... he said himself that he was not the kind to think with his heart._ “Vilkas.”

The Acting Harbinger turned around, waiting.

“I appreciate you telling me this.” Ulfric extended his hand. “I do not think any less of you, regardless of all that has passed between us thus far. I will attempt to form my opinion of you based on what happens from now on.”

After some hesitation, Vilkas shook the jarl’s proffered hand. “We’re not friends, and I don’t think we ever will be.” He smiled for real this time, with a flash of savage teeth. “But perhaps we _can_ work together for this one time... Jarl Ulfric.”

“Then let us start now.” Ulfric returned the gesture. _Even having him as a reluctant ally is preferable to having him as an enemy._ “There are Forsworn at the Karthspire camp that need killing, and I will need all the help I can get on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	40. Watch the Skies

The chill night air felt unusually still, with not even a breeze to stir it. Dark, craggily shapeless mountains loomed over them, seeming to tower so high that they blocked out the empty blackness of the night sky. The only sounds that could be heard – the distant rushing of the Karth River, the clinking of armor and the almost indiscernible breathing of those around him, the eerie night calls of birds roosting in the juniper trees – seemed to thunder in the near-silence.

 _The worst part is always the waiting,_ Ulfric reflected grimly, crouching behind the cover of a large boulder with one hand on the hilt of his war axe. _Simply standing by patiently, watching as the calm degenerates into the inevitable storm..._ As quietly as he could, he shifted position to take some weight off his cramped legs, settling on the hard, unyielding ground. _This does not sit well with me._

“Brother?” whispered a deep, husky voice that, even when lowered, still seemed to carry. Even in the near-darkness, without the benefit of distinctly seeing the men that surrounded him, the jarl could tell that it was Farkas. “When do you think we’ll get the signal?”

“At any moment now,” an unseen Vilkas murmured back. “Hopefully, the assassins will merely check to make sure that the coast is clear enough and then have us come in, but that might be too much to hope for.”

“I agree,” a hidden Galmar snorted. “The Redguard and that lunatic jester are more likely to kill everyone in their sleep like they suggested earlier rather than let us in on some of the fighting.”

Ulfric sighed. While the four of them – himself, his housecarl, and the two male Companions – were lying in wait near to the Karthspire encampment, with the Nightingales and Aela perched on the mountains ringing the site, Nazir and Cicero had offered to do some scouting and report back on what the coalition would be facing. (Babette was the only one left behind; she’d filled the saddlebags with assorted potions and sent them on their way earlier that evening with a parting plea to Nazir to “ _please_ try to keep Cicero from doing anything stupid.” The jarl was still unsure of whether having the Imperial assassin along in the first place counted as disregarding her advice.) He and the other warriors had been waiting by the Karth River with their horses for some time now without hearing anything from the two assassins, and Ulfric was feeling less secure and more suspicious by the minute.

“It’s been a while, brother,” Farkas pointed out, still in an undertone. “Do you think we should investigate? They could be in trouble.”

“The Dark Brotherhood deals in trouble, Companion.” Nazir’s wry voice floated out of the darkness as his indistinct form slipped out from behind a pile of loose rocks by the river’s edge. He’d forgone his traditional garb of Hammerfell for the riveted red-and-black Brotherhood leathers and a cowl that hid his face, but his scimitar still hung by his side. “We also happen to gladly take advantage of happy coincidences whenever we can find them.”

Ulfric could almost hear Farkas’ brow furrowing. “Come again?”

“It means that we’re free to go, but we have to move fast. Silence isn’t as important as speed is right now.” The Redguard began to turn away. “Get up. _Now_.”

“Merciful Talos,” Galmar groaned, struggling to his feet from sitting cross-legged on the ground, “what did you people _do_?”

“Nothing, grumpy housecarl, nothing!” Cicero, still in his jester’s motley, cackled from somewhere behind Nazir. “All of the scary Forsworn were already dead as doornails by the time the Redguard and sneaky Cicero arrived!”

“Dead?” Vilkas questioned, alarmed. “How?”

“Burnt to tasty little crisps!” the assassin chortled, clapping his hands together gleefully. “Would the startled warriors like to come see the pretty sight?”

Rising from his seat, Galmar shot a wary glance at the now-standing Ulfric. “You don’t suppose that –” he began slowly.

A thunderous roar echoed over the mountains, cutting off his query.

Farkas glanced upwards. “What was _that?_ ”

“A dragon,” Galmar sighed irritably. “A gods-damned _dragon._ And I thought this whole adventure couldn’t get much better.”

“There’s a cave on the other side of the river, across the bridges of the encampment,” Nazir argued. “If we get there in time, that overgrown lizard won’t be able to reach us.”

“But what about Aela and the thieves?” Farkas protested. “They’re still up in the mountains somewhere!”

“Not any bloody more, we’re not.” The shrouded form of Brynjolf emerged out of the jagged shadows, nearly invisible in his Nightingale’s armor, with Karliah and Aela right behind him. “We may be capable of taking on some Forsworn, but there’s no way in Oblivion that we can fight a _dragon._ ”

“We can definitely fight it and perhaps win, but we can’t kill it for good,” Karliah corrected. “Only Kajsa can do that. If we _do_ face off against it, we’ll have to make do with what we have.”

“I vote we run,” Nazir said flatly. “You’ve never been set on fire before. I’ll tell you now that I _don’t_ recommend it.”

“The Redguard is wrong about most things, but hesitant Cicero is inclined to agree with him now,” Cicero muttered.

“We should try to kill it,” Galmar disagreed vehemently. “It’s one less dragon to worry about. Besides, if that brute has a brain, it’ll probably wait outside the cavern and then pick us all off as we come out.”

The roar came again, louder and ending in a shrilly wailing note.

“It sounds like it’s wounded.” Aela’s eyes gleamed in the night, thrilled with the prospect of a hunt. “If so, it’ll be much easier to take down.”

Ulfric frowned in thought. A dragon was certainly not easy prey, but if it was already injured, their chances of emerging from the fight _alive_ – maybe not entirely unscathed, but _alive_ – were much higher. He thought back to the frost dragon that had attacked Windhelm all those months ago, the one that Kajsa slew. _If we can ground it... take away the use of its wings..._

He cleared his throat, causing everyone to glance over at him. “We’ll be able to slay the dragon.”

“How?” Brynjolf asked in disbelief.

“Yourself, Aela, and Karliah can shoot it out of the sky. If you aim for its wings and its underside, it’ll be forced to land and then we can kill it much easier.” He glanced at the other Companions and Galmar. “As long as we stay out of the range of its claws and its fire breath, we should be able to take care of it.”

Vilkas smiled grimly. “I’ve killed one of every beast in Skyrim, but this will be my first time slaying a dragon.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t your last,” Nazir commented sardonically. “Where do Cicero and I fit into this picture, Jarl Ulfric?”

“Since you both seemed so keen on running earlier,” Galmar cut in, “I think I have just the job for your crazy little friend...”

* * *

“Yoo-hoo! Draaa-gon! Down hee-eere!” Cicero bounced up and down on one of the wide wooden bridges over the river, waving his arms over his head wildly. “Draaa-gon! Come out and plaa-aay!”

“By Sithis, this is insane,” Nazir muttered, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “The jester may get on my nerves all the time, but even _he_ doesn’t deserve to be incinerated.” He glared at Galmar, who just shrugged in response.

“That’s why you’re keeping an eye out for the dragon,” Vilkas refuted firmly. “As soon as you see it, you shout a warning to the jester and he’ll jump into the river. If the dragon tries to breath fire at him, he’ll be safe there as long as he keeps himself hidden.”

The quartet of warriors – Ulfric, Galmar, Farkas, and Vilkas – now crouched on a rocky slope overlooking the Karth River and the Forsworn encampment, watching the assassin capering about on the tangled network of bridges below them. Nazir was up on a higher ledge, scrutinizing the dark skies. Even though they couldn’t be seen at all, the Nightingales and Aela had stolen into the camp and climbed up to positions on the remnants of some ancient Nordic watchtowers, bows at the ready.

“It’s not the dragon I’m worried about,” the Redguard retorted. “I’m worried about what _Cicero_ might do.”

“Stupid, brainless dragon!” Cicero was screeching, shaking his fists at the empty skies. “Come down here right now! Impatient Cicero doesn’t like waiting!”

As if in answer, the mighty roar echoed out again, breaking the stillness of the air as a dragon – nearly hidden in the night due to the dull brown scales that armored its body – swooped down over a mountain peak and skimmed over the Karth River.

Nazir instantly cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted: “CICERO, JUMP!”

The jester immediately dove off the bridge and vanished into the water with a clumsy splash – and not a moment too soon. Flames burst from the dragon’s open maw and licked at the rickety wood of the bridge. Flailing about in the choppy river waters at first, Cicero began to swim frantically towards the shore for cover.

With a howl of rage at the prospect of its quarry getting away, the beast wheeled around in mid-air with a swing of its spiny tail, flattening its wings against its back as it angled downwards. Suddenly, it dawned on Ulfric what the dragon was planning to do: lunge for Cicero and seize the assassin like a hawk would snatch a fish.

Vilkas realized it as well. “AELA, SHOOT NOW!”

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the fleeting shapes of three arrows sped through the air, piercing the pale membrane of the dragon’s wing. The beast shrieked in pain, unfurling its wings again as it attempted to regain its former flight, the injured one fluttering uselessly.

Three more arrows struck its one good wing – and with a furious, screaming roar, the dragon plummeted downwards, crashing into the maze of bridges spanning the river. The wood creaked and cracked under the sudden weight, and then the structures collapsed into the Karth River with a deafening crash and a tremendous splash.

Clawing its way to the top of the wreckage, the beast reared its horned head with a roar, thrashing about and ripping away the collapsed wood around it. “ _Nivahriin joor! Dinok saraan hi!”_

With a fierce battle cry, Vilkas jumped down from the mountainside with his greatsword drawn, followed by his brother. Brandishing his battleaxe, Galmar lumbered after them with Ulfric not far behind. Nazir leapt down to bring up the rear, yanking a sopping wet Cicero to his feet as he ran by.

Leaning on the talons on its wings, using them as an extra pair of legs, the dragon finally struggled out of the remnants of the Forsworn’s bridges. It began to advance on them, flapping its wings to ineptly propel itself through the water and snapping its jaws threateningly, whipping its head from side to side.

The five men saw the beast coming towards them. With a quick jerk of the head from Ulfric, the group scattered: the jarl and Galmar rushing to one side and the Companions and the assassins maneuvering around to the other.

Realizing their plan, the dragon swung its head around to see where its enemy was headed. Surprising them all, the Redguard assassin darted in, dodging its lashing tail, and stabbed the dragon’s throat with a swiftly executed underhanded swing. Cicero let out an excited yelp and threw himself at the dragon’s neck as well, hacking at it with his ebony daggers.

Jerking its head up with a bone-chilling howl, the beast shook the two assassins off its neck, flinging them to the side like they each weighed no more than a feather. As Nazir and Cicero crashed into the shallow waters by the shore with near-simultaneous _crunch_ es, Vilkas slashed at the dragon’s stomach while his brother drove his own greatsword into the beast’s hind leg. Wielding both his war axe and Queen Freydis’ sword, Ulfric nearly sliced off one of the dragon’s useless wings

The beast roared threateningly and made to turn about to face its attackers, but then Galmar ran around to the front, shaking his battleaxe at it. “Hey, ugly! Want a piece of me?”

Striking forward with its jaws wide open, the dragon would have snapped the general in two had Galmar not stumbled back. Just as the beast was about to lunge again, razor-sharp teeth bared ferociously, the housecarl swung his weapon around and hacked it directly in the mouth.

Another trio of arrows whistled through the air, hitting the dragon in its snout and only adding to its screams of rage. Weakened by the unexpectedly vicious assault, it collapsed on the muddy riverbank and then opened its mouth again for its last-resort attack. “YOL –”

Ulfric saw his chance. Catching hold of one of the horns on the beast’s neck, he pulled himself up on top of it, hanging on for all he was worth as the crazed dragon suddenly twisted its head to throw him off. Lifting Queen Freydis’ sword high, he drove the blade into the beast’s glaring eye.

The dragon’s fiery breath that would have easily killed Galmar instead came out as a strangled puff of smoke as the great beast collapsed with one final howl of defeat. Yanking his sword out of the dragon’s eye with a spurt of blood, the jarl jumped off, staggering away from the beast as it became suddenly still, its jaw falling limply shut.

Silence reigned again, with only the rushing of the river and the gasps of labored breathing to disturb it. Hurried footsteps drew nearer as Brynjolf, followed by Aela and Karliah, slid down the slope of loose rocks leading to the shoreline. With a groan and plenty of wincing, Nazir slowly crawled out of the water, dragging a dazed Cicero along with him. Kneeling by them, Karliah attempted to examine the injuries of the two assassins, but the Redguard just waved her away and stood up unsteadily. The jester remained on the ground, rocking back and forth and giggling to himself. Brynjolf and Aela just stared in awe at the dead dragon.

Farkas pulled his greatsword out of the beast’s leg, clapping Vilkas on the back with breathless enthusiasm. “We did it. We slew a dragon.”

“It might not be _truly_ dead as far as its soul is concerned,” Galmar said gruffly, eyeing the massive corpse, “but this right here is good enough for me.”

Ulfric nodded wearily, looking down at his blood-streaked blade. _By the Nine... how is it that Kajsa can take down one of these by herself?_

Vilkas glanced over at the jarl, approval in his eyes. “Well, it would seem that you are no milk-drinker. You can actually hold your own in a fight.”

“You sound surprised.” Ulfric meant for his comment to come out dry, but his voice sounded like he felt: tired and weighed down. _It has been much too long since I wore steel plate..._

A new voice rang out of the darkness. “ _I_ am surprised – mostly that you’re out in the thick of Forsworn territory.”

Save for the exhausted, injured assassins, the members of the coalition whipped around in surprise to see three newcomers standing on the river’s edge a ways away. The first was a tall Nord woman with her auburn hair pulled away from her stern, forbidding face. The second was a young, but brawny Nord man with red hair in braids. The third was a thin Dunmer man with a close-cropped beard and slanted red eyes. All three of them were clad in the same ornate steel armor, with a jointed chestplate and shoulder guards, as well as helmets crowned with a raised dragon crest. The woman had a steel greatsword on her back, the Nord man carried a round, grooved shield and a steel sword, and the Dunmer gripped a steel mace in one hand and cradled a small ball of magelight in the other.

Farkas’s eyes widened in recognition. “Uthgerd?”

“What are _you_ doing here, murderer?” Aela spat, her face contorted with remembered hate.

The Nord woman’s face hardened even further. “Investigating who stole our kill. I should have known it was the Companions: always seeking to take the glory of others.”

“What glory?” Aela laughed harshly. “You have nothing for us to be envious of.”

“Hang on a damn moment,” Galmar interjected, shoving his way to the front of the crowd, between the two seething warriors. “What’s this about us stealing your kill?”

It was the Dunmer that spoke up in a crisply accented, but droll voice. “We’ve been tracking this dragon for a few days now. We used to think that there were no more left in the Reach, but that one –” he gestured to the beast’s corpse “– proved us wrong when it toasted all of the Forsworn that had been re-gathering on our doorstep last week.”

Ulfric blinked in surprise. _If the Karthspire is their doorstep, then..._ “You are members of the Blades?”

The Nord man nodded eagerly. “We sure are. Kind of recent recruits, actually, but we’re still Blades!” He extended his hand and shook that of the jarl’s. “I’m Erik, called Slayer. This is Uthgerd, called Unbroken, and this is Erandur.” He motioned to the scowling Nord woman and the wry Dunmer. “And you are?”

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” Ulfric released the young man’s hand. “My companions and I have been seeking you. I wish to speak with your superiors, Delphine and Esbern.”

Erik frowned. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“It is about the Dragonborn.”

The younger Nord exchanged a look with a suddenly alert Erandur and an alarmed Uthgerd, and then turned back to Ulfric, chewing his lip. “I’m – I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?” the jarl demanded.

Erik gulped uncomfortably. “Kajsa... well, she hasn’t been exactly... _welcome_ in Sky Haven Temple for a while now. If you were to ask Delphine about her...”

“Or Esbern,” Erandur added.

“But mostly Delphine,” the Nord Blade corrected. “In any case, it – it wouldn’t be good.”

Ulfric paused, his mouth flattening into a thin line. _Once again, those I request help from are reluctant to give it._ “And if I said it concerned the Thalmor as well?”

Erik’s eyes widened and he glanced back at his companions to seek their opinion. Erandur nodded warily. Uthgerd just shrugged.

“All right, Jarl Ulfric,” the young Nord finally said. “We’ll take you and your friends to Delphine and Esbern. But if things go wrong... well, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for the two sentences of the Dragon Tongue (thank God for **[Thu'um.org](http://thuum.org/index.php)** 's translator):  
> • _Nivahriin joor! Dinok saraan hi!_ = Cowardly mortals! Death awaits you!
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	41. Delphine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.

Pacing across the stone floor, his footsteps echoing in the vast, cavernous space, Ulfric waited for the two Blades, all the while with so many different emotions stirring up unbidden within him: weariness, impatience, irritation, melancholy. _It is no wonder that I feel this way. I am not used to hard traveling or armor or battle... but I will need to adjust to all of them very quickly._

Yet, there was another, creeping feeling that over took all else: trepidation. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it is that made him so uneasy, but he could feel the tension in his shoulders and the movement of his hand straying towards the hilt of his sword, and he knew that his eyes were unconsciously scanning his dim surroundings, looking for movement.

Looking for Delphine and Esbern.

The three Blades recruits had unsteadily guided their party through the Karthspire, past all of the traps and tests, and into the heart of Sky Haven Temple, a massive fortress within the mountains and an architectural relic from the times of the Akaviri. While the other members of the coalition were resting and having a meal in the living quarters, courtesy of the Blades’ recruits, Eric had told the jarl to wait out in the main hall, saying that Delphine and Esbern would probably wish to speak to him alone. And now, here he was – in the middle of this huge, silent hall with its towering pillars of stone and the strange bas-relief mural that stretched the length of the dais.

Turning his attention to the mural, Ulfric ceased his pacing and examined the images, running his fingers over the intricately worked stone. Even in the low light, torchlight still flickered over the carvings and illuminated some parts of it: warriors battling, cities falling to flames as dragons swooped overhead – and a mighty dragon, hovering over a pile of bones and charred corpses, attacking a lone warrior with its shield raised to defend itself.

Frowning, the jarl peered at the warrior. At first glance, it appeared to be genderless, its face obscured by a helmet and its body by armor that appeared very much like the kind worn by the Blades recruits. But the longer he looked at it, he saw that the armor seemed to be modeled after ebony armor instead. The warrior’s sword remained the same – a long, thin blade crackling with shock magic – but the shield seemed to become more robust, adorned with jagged spikes. The helmet was gone, displaying the fiercely determined profile of a woman surrounded by raggedly-cut, chin-length hair.

A very familiar profile.

Ulfric’s breath stuck in his throat. _Is that... Kajsa? What is this mural?_

A deep, jovial voice suddenly echoed from behind him. “Ah, I see you’ve discovered Alduin’s Wall, Jarl Ulfric. In all my years, I have never seen a more finely-preserved example of early Second Era Akaviri sculptural relief – and certainly none that are more historically significant.”

Startled once more, the jarl turned around. A bald, yet white-bearded Nord man, dressed in rumpled black traveling clothes, stood behind him: arms crossed over his chest, beaming proudly at the mural as if he had carved it himself.

“What did you say this mural was again?” Ulfric asked, his frown deepening.

“Alduin’s Wall. Where the Akaviri laid down all they knew of the World-Eater, part history –” he gestured towards the farthest left of the carvings “– and part prophecy, including the Prophecy of the Dragonborn.” He tapped the carving of Kajsa. “In this mural is all the accumulated dragon lore of the Akaviri. Most exciting, from a scholarly point of view... not to mention utterly fascinating.”

_So Kajsa’s destiny was already laid down for her centuries upon centuries before she was even born..._ The jarl shook that unsettling thought away and tried to focus on the matter at hand. “Esbern, is it?”

“That I am.” The older man shook Ulfric’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “Young Eric told me that you and your people were here to see Delphine and I about Kajsa. Is this the truth?”

“He spoke correctly.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Esbern’s face. “Well, I suspect that Delphine will have a word or two to say about that,” he said quietly.

“Damn right I will.” Delphine, clad in Blades armor and with a stormy expression on her face, strode up the stairs of the dais. “All _I_ want to know is why that _traitor_ is asking for our help.”

It took the jarl a second to realize that she was speaking of Kajsa, not of him. _What happened between her and the Blades that made them hate her so?_ “It is not Kajsa who is asking for your help, but I on her behalf.”

“And what makes you think that we’ll give it?” the Breton challenged. “She refused to aid us, so why should we aid her?”

Esbern held up a hand to silence her. “Patience, my dear. Let Jarl Ulfric get a word in edgewise.”

Briefly nodding his thanks, Ulfric glanced towards a stony-faced Delphine. “While taking back the Rift for the Stormcloaks, Kajsa was captured by the Thalmor. As it is a dire situation, I have assembled a coalition to help rescue her. My intelligence has told me that she imprisoned at their embassy in Skyrim; seeing that you helped her infiltrate the Thalmor embassy before, I had hoped that you could help us with that as well.”

Pain flashed across the Breton’s face for a brief moment before her stern façade returned, but not without an additional, thoughtful purse of her lips. “The Thalmor?”

“The Thalmor,” the jarl confirmed. “Kajsa has been an invaluable asset to the Stormcloaks. My guess is that the Thalmor hope to give the Empire the edge in this war and turn the tide against my army,” he added, choosing to withhold the information from the dossier.

Delphine glanced over at Esbern, waiting for his input.

“Don’t look at me, my dear,” the old man admonished. “I’m no warrior, just a simple loremaster. If you’re to go gallivanting off to Haafingar to storm the Embassy, that’s your call.”

“ _My_ thoughts were that _if_ we were to heed Jarl Ulfric’s call, _you_ should be the one to go,” the Breton retorted. “You’re the better tactician. _If_ I give you the blueprints, you’re bound to come up with something much better than I could put together.”

“I think the time for ‘if’ is past, my dear,” Esbern said. “You know what the Thalmor do to their prisoners, especially those they believe they can get some use out of.” His expression turned grave. “The last Dragonborn in the hands of the Aldmeri Dominion is something I shudder to contemplate.”

Delphine’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Are you saying that –”

“If we help Jarl Ulfric and his friends, it will turn out well for us,” the other Blade rejoined firmly. “Kajsa is the only one who can help us with our mission. If she dies, then our chance for justice is gone forever.”

The Breton laughed scornfully. “If she survives, she still won’t come around. Kajsa isn’t on our side anymore, Esbern. Not on the Greybeards’ side, either – but _his._ ” The last word was spat with distinct loathing.

Ulfric was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing a crucial piece of information. “Then whose side _is_ she on?”

“ _Paarthurnax’s_ side.” Delphine’s hands clenched into fists. “Instead of killing him as she should, she has chosen to ally with the enemy instead and become his student.” Her mouth flattened into a thin line. “It is nothing short of treacherous: the last Dragonborn... and Alduin’s lieutenant.”

The jarl was shocked. _Paarthurnax... I know that name!_ “Are you saying that the leader of the Greybeards is a _dragon?_ ”

“Delphine,” Esbern interrupted, “I am sure that Jarl Ulfric has no interest in re-opening old wounds. It may have been the wrong decision, but I am sure that Kajsa will come around at some point.” He turned to the other Nord man. “This is why we have need of the Dragonborn, Jarl Ulfric. If she cannot do what she was born to do, no one else can. As long as Paarthurnax is alive, Tamriel is not safe.”

Ulfric frowned darkly. “Are you saying that _that_ is the only reason that you will help? Rescuing Kajsa only so you can attempt to sway her back to your way of thinking again?” He laughed, but it was not a cheerful laugh. “And to think that I could not see why Kajsa broke off her ties with you. Manipulating others, bending them to your will... you are no better than your sworn enemies, the Thalmor.”

“As if you are any better than they!” Delphine hissed. “You dare have the gall to compare _us_ to those murderous, arrogant zealots? You have no idea how many of my comrades, how many of my _friends_ have been killed by those elven bastards! And especially when _you_ – you were their willing _puppet!_ ”

Rage engulfed him. Without another thought, the jarl grabbed the Breton by the throat, slamming her into Alduin’s Wall. Letting out a strangled cry of pain, Delphine tried to pry his fingers off her neck, but to no avail. Esbern made to lunge forward, but Ulfric drew Queen Freydis’ sword, keeping the older man at bay.

The jarl whipped his head around, glaring at the Breton. “I will not make excuses for my younger self, but know that I am no _puppet_. And you, Delphine, have _no_ idea how much the Thalmor have taken from _me_ – my pride... my homeland... my god... and now, the woman I love.” With tangible disgust, he released her. Delphine crumpled against the mural, rubbing her throat and gasping for breath.

“Now,” Ulfric continued in a snarl, “I will not continue to ask for _your_ help, only for the blueprints that you spoke of. And if you do not get them for me – so help me, Talos! – I will take them by force.” He glared at both of the Blades. “Your decision.”

* * *

Blood-freezing cold prickled across her skin as the frostbite spell slammed into her chest, leaving a thin, scattered coating of ice on her arms and torso. Combined with the chill of the dungeon, the sensation was painfully unbearable and her body was wracked with convulsive shaking and shuddering in the face of the utterly numbing cold.    

Kajsa gritted her teeth, locking her jaws in place. _I will not cry out. I will not cry out. I will not –_

Just as suddenly as it had came, the stream of crackling frost ceased and she gasped involuntarily, filling her lungs with the frigid air. Her stomach cried out in protest, and she tried to ignore it as best she could. _Oh, Gods and Daedra, I’m_ starving...

The Dragonborn let her neck go limp, allowing her head to fall down onto her chest, willing away all of the sensations bombarding her: the hard seat of the chair, the rough coils of rope cutting into her wrists, the dryness of her throat. Her vision faded in and out, lightening and darkening, distorting the world around her.

A low, amused chuckle cut through her hazy, pain-racked mind. “If you were a full Nord instead of only _half_ one, you would probably have more resistance to this particular kind of destruction magic.” Lazy, light footsteps sauntered towards her. “Unfortunate for you... but very fortunate for me.”

Orthorien’s robes rustled softly as he knelt on the wooden floor, and Kajsa immediately tensed as his cool fingers danced across her chilled skin. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest with alarm as he traced the long, jagged scar left by Mercer Frey’s sword from the underside of her breast and down over her stomach, nearly to the waistband of her torn leggings. _Nothing lower. Nothing lower, oh gods – please –_

“How... _responsive_ you are, Katarina.” She could almost swear that she heard the smile in his voice. “I always did love that about you.” His fingers curled around the fabric of her leggings, his nails scraping over the skin underneath.

Kajsa inhaled shakily. Every fiber of her being was screaming at her to Shout him into Oblivion, to make him bleed the way he’d made her bleed once – but she couldn’t summon the energy. Every time she tried to gather it, her drugged, sluggish mind only let it slip away. _I’m helpless. But I can’t let him know that._

She licked her cracked lips, settling on two, heavily exhaled, deliberately chosen words. “Fuck you.”

The Justiciar laughed again as his touch mercifully left her skin. “And spirited, too. The pretended fire and independence of human women never ceases to amuse me.” He leaned in, his breath warming her ear. “You did not have that scar when last we met. Who gave that to you?”

“Someone I killed,” she managed, her body tightening again as his fingers brushed over the small, round scar left by Karliah’s arrow.

“Good. I do so hate having someone else mar my finest work.” Orthorien’s robes rustled again as he stood, turning his back on her. The air turned dry and crackled with energy, and the Dragonborn stiffened even further.

“Now,” he continued, turning back around with a ball of shock magic hovering over his upturned palm, “let us return to our business. I have only just scratched the surface with my questions – and with you, my dear.”

* * *

Mouth tight, face expressionless, Delphine slapped a thin leather folio onto the surface of the stone table. “The blueprints.”

Rising from his chair, Ulfric untied and unwound the cord wrapped around the folio, opening the file to reveal a stack of neat, orderly papers. The lines of the drawings were crisp and precise, standing out starkly against the good-quality parchment. As the jarl leafed through them, he could see that each one of the pages had been stamped with a brand of golden ink that was dulled somewhat, but he could still read the script:

**_Approved 4E 175 by First Emissary Arphenion Lloril_ **

**_Property of Thalmor Embassy Archives – Imperial City_ **

Lifting his head, Ulfric stared at the Breton with disbelief. “These are the official blueprints of the Embassy in Haafingar. How on Nirn did you manage to get these?”

Delphine tightly crossed her arms over her chest, fixing him with a cool-eyed look. “Last year, I’d begun planning a mission to infiltrate the Embassy, and I knew that if I were to succeed, I’d need at least an inkling of what to expect. I traveled down to Bravil and made contact with the Thieves Guild. I met with some of their best operatives and arranged for them to break into the Embassy and steal some documents for me.” She looked away for a moment, a bit of melancholy weaving its way into her expression. “They succeeded and managed to get them to me, but... it came at a dire cost.”

The feeling of trepidation came creeping back over the jarl again. “How so?”

Lifting up the stack of pages, the Breton plucked a crumpled piece of parchment out from underneath it and stiffly handed it to Ulfric. “This was with the folio when I came to pick it up from the dead drop I’d set up. I had no idea who it was from; it certainly wasn’t from one of the thieves I originally contracted.”

Smoothing out the parchment, the jarl scanned the cramped scrawl on the paper:

> _To Appius’s client:_
> 
> _You may have gotten your precious information, but I hope that you realize what you’ve done. Four good thieves – some of the best in all Cyrodiil – are lying in the halls of the Imperial City Embassy: some dead, some in the torture chambers. I may have escaped with my life, but Thalmor agents are on my trail, intent on taking it and these documents from me. I am fleeing Cyrodiil for good, but I know that they will hunt me to the end of my days, no matter where I run._
> 
> _You might never read this, but I hope you do, so that you might hear what I have to say. Whoever you are, I hope you’re happy knowing that blood – both theirs and mine, soon enough – is on your hands. Whoever you are, I hope that you’ll still be able to sleep at night, knowing that you had others to take the fall that you should have taken. Whoever you are, I will curse you for every last day I have left for taking my life away from me._
> 
> _Whoever you are... I hope that the price that my comrades and I paid was damn well worth whatever amount of septims you paid in advance._
> 
> _Keep the rest of your money and choke on it. I won’t live long enough to spend it, anyway._
> 
> _K.  
> _

Looking up again slowly, Ulfric met Delphine’s eyes. _There is no one else that it could have been from..._ “This is from –”

“– the Dragonborn,” she cut him off. “I know. Not at the time, but definitely now.”

Suddenly, the realization dawned on the jarl. “Her estrangement from the Blades was not just about Paarthurnax.”

The Breton nodded curtly. “It was after she returned from Sovngarde, after she defeated the World-Eater. I don’t know how she found out, but she was _angry_ – more furious than I’ve ever seen her.” She exhaled sharply. “The Dragonborn had none of her usual restraint... she probably would have killed me if Esbern hadn’t intervened.”

Delphine raised her head, her normally icy eyes now weary. “Kajsa never trusted me. Hated me even before she met me. I don’t know why you came to the Blades for help, Jarl Ulfric, but...” Her voice trailed off for a moment.

“I regret it; I really do. Not about Paarthurnax, but about _this:_ my role in this mess. I wish there was more aid I could give you; gods know I have more than enough cause to hate the Thalmor. But this is all I can do. I don’t think the Dragonborn would appreciate it if any of us came with you, least of all me.”

Ulfric swallowed. _Unfortunately, she has a point. Kajsa can be quite vindictive._ “Nevertheless, I thank you for these.” He bundled the pages of the blueprints together in the folio, retying the cord around the bundle. “I will return them at some point if I am able.”

The Breton shook her head at his offer. “Keep them. I’d rather not hang on to them any longer.”

Turning away, tucking the folio under his arm, the jarl began to walk away, hearing his footfalls echo off the stones again.

“Jarl Ulfric.”

Ulfric paused mid-stride.

“Do me a favor and kill all of the Thalmor in the Embassy.” Delphine’s voice once more possessed the fierce note that it had held earlier. “It’s high time the Aldmeri Dominion left Skyrim for good.”

Even though she could not see his face, the jarl smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Did you honestly expect me to do anything less than that?”

_When we get to the Embassy, the Thalmor_ will _answer for their crimes. After all of the years that they lorded over the Empire, unchecked, unchallenged – they will finally feel the effects of what they put into motion. They will pay for all the blood they have spilled: the blood of Blades and Talos-worshippers and my comrades._

_They will pay for what they did to Kajsa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Torture
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	42. The Longest Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Six Weeks," Of Monsters and Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18Gyci5tw74)

_I have never liked the Reach. The land is harsh and inhospitable – even for Skyrim, generally regarded by outsiders as one of the most uninviting lands out of the whole of Tamriel – and anything but straightforward, much like the Forsworn and the other cunning cutthroats that call this hold their home. The Druadach Mountains hold many dangers; the roads only less so. The Karth River is swift and rough, easily capable of drowning even the strongest of men. Travelers should consider themselves lucky if they glimpse the sky, for mist cloaks the mountains like a shroud. The skeletons of forts and barrows and other ancient ruins dot the landscape: a testament to those unfortunates who realized the unwelcoming nature of the Reach perhaps too late._

_Some say that the Reach can be beautiful, despite its dangers. I say that its beauty is what makes it dangerous. It catches you off-guard and makes you vulnerable, unaware of whatever might be lying in wait for you._

_Fortunately, I am not alone in my views; Galmar hates it almost as much as I do. The Companions do not show it, but I can tell they are uneasy. Aela, easily the wildest of the three of them, keeps scouting ahead of our route with her bow at the ready and her eyes shifting about – like she expects to find a whole army of Reachmen waiting to ambush us. The Nightingales and the assassins are being very calm, some more so than others; the jester has taken up singing while we are on the move and it has earned him some severe words from Nazir._

_It is strange to think of it, but I feel as though all of the coalition members are becoming more..._ relaxed _when dealing with one another – or at the very least, less hostile. Galmar disapproves of everyone but the Companions, but that is only to be expected, I suppose. Likewise, the Companions are the friendliest with my housecarl; Vilkas and he take night watch together, discussing weapons and tactics and past battles while they do so. Aela enjoys teasing the two of them, laughing at them “gossiping like haggard old crones.”_

_Farkas seems to be the most open with everyone, not caring about which faction they identify with. He has played dice with Brynjolf once or twice, and despite our shared tension, we all had a bit of a laugh at the look on the Second’s face when the Companion won repeatedly. Babette immediately proclaimed Farkas to be “the sweetest person ever” when he plucked some wildflowers that she needed for one of her mixtures without anyone asking him to. The three of them spend a lot of time together, and at times, when I hear their laughter from across our nightly camp, it seems like they are the most cheerful of us all. Whether it is due to Brynjolf’s entertaining storytelling and boundless charisma, Babette’s infectious optimism, or Farkas’s charming ingenuousness, our spirits are up higher than they would have been._

_After our encounter with the Blades at Sky Haven Temple, we were not long in leaving Fort Sungard, and then forsaking the road for the wilderness of the Druadach Mountains. I have lost track of how many days we have spent struggling over the rocky, untamed landscape; it all looks the same to me. Fortunately, Karliah and Aela are excellent trackers and guides, and they have been in charge of mapping a course for us. Without them, I suspect that we would have been lost long before now._

_This long haul through the mountains has been largely dull, and that is how I would prefer it to remain. No Forsworn have attacked us thus far, but it is too early to tell; the blue of the Stormcloak uniforms worn by the company of men traveling with us is a popular target for the Reachmen. Our food is running a little low, but it is nothing to be worried about, as game is plentiful and we have excellent archers. We walk in relative silence, not wanting to call any undue attention to ourselves._

_But our most tiring tasks come at night. Each evening, after we have stopped to make camp, representatives from each faction – Nazir, Vilkas, and Karliah – along with Galmar and myself gather around the blueprints of the Thalmor Embassy and plan for our assault. Fortunately, this has be largely facilitated by the quality and thoroughness of the documents I received from Delphine; not only are there the blueprints themselves, but diagrams of the grounds, topographical maps, and a full catalogue of everything and everyone inside, down to the last guard and bottle of wine. Deciding on a course of action is easier than it was for the Karthspire expedition, as we started on the premise that there would be more than one approach towards this. Vilkas and Galmar get to have it their way, as do Karliah and Nazir._

_Privately, my housecarl and I have been dealing with the matters of war, away from prying eyes and ears. It is too early to tell what our definite plans would be, but we have agreed on a few things. After the raid on the Embassy, the coalition will likely flee Haafingar – as it is still contested territory – for Eastmarch. However, Galmar will have our Stormcloaks stay behind in Hjaalmarch in preparation for taking Fort Hraggstad. Once that is accomplished, there is only one thing left in our way: Solitude._

_There is no question that Jarl Skald will lend us the use of Dawnstar’s fleet. It will prove useful in organizing a blockade of the port, allowing us to starve out the city before we move in. Dengeir has authorized us to cut down trees in the Pine Forest in order to make catapults, which may not do much to the walls, but they will do damage to Solitude’s buildings. And, of course, Stormcloaks have begun amassing in great numbers and moving in on the hold. It will be nothing short of a tremendous battle._

_But before all of this, there is the Embassy. And_ that _is what worries me most of all. I cannot say how many times I have thought about whether this is a trap, a ruse of the Dominion to capture and deal with me once and for all. I can only hope that they do not know we are coming... and that Kajsa is still alive._

_After reading her letter to Delphine, I find I am wondering about her more frequently: about her past, about why she came to Skyrim, if she thinks of me as often as I think of her. I pray that she is remaining strong and defiant, but I suspect she does not need my prayers; knowing her, she is doing nothing less than that._

_And still, I continue to lose sleep over her. She comes to me in my restless dreams, but she remains in shadows, just out of reach. I try to touch her, to hold her close, but she drifts farther and farther away. Sometimes, I see her lying motionless on a dirty, straw-covered floor, naked and bleeding from scars that I have never seen, and that is the only time I can make it to her – to cradle her cold, stiff body in my arms and weep like I am dead as well._

_I am afraid, so afraid that we will lose her. And the worst part is that we might._

* * *

_Hours pass like a second and days become nothing more than minutes here. Before my bleary eyes, they all blur together as one: one long, dark night._

_Orthorien keeps pushing me to my limits, and it’s all I can do not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. Every time he blasts me with ice or lightning, every time he whips me and cuts open the scars on my back anew, every time he chains me up with silver shackles and watches as they burn me and eat away at my skin, I need to force myself to not scream, to not cry, to not beg him and implore him to stop. Not that it would be for long, anyway. I have none of the answers to his questions, and I’m in no state to lie to him or even tell the truth._

_I’m not sure I can keep doing this for much longer. I don’t eat or drink unless I have to; I have a strong suspicion that my meager meals are drugged. While Orthorien’s tortures never go far enough to cripple or severely maim me, they’re more than enough to make me weak. I feel myself growing thinner and thinner, running my hands over my ribs and counting every single one. My unwashed hair has grown lank and tangled, and what little clothes I have are covered in dried blood._

_My non-cooperation is making Orthorien furious. He’s already had to have some of the guards hold me down and shove food down my throat because I wouldn’t eat it. Once, he tied me down, and, taking a dagger, slowly re-opened every single scar on my body: ones from my childhood and days as a mercenary, ones that_ he _gave me, the ones from Alduin’s teeth, and then the one from Karliah’s arrow, and finally, the one from Mercer’s sword. I give myself credit for wincing very little throughout that._

 _He threatens and cajoles, but he’s fast losing patience with me for not slipping back into the role he forced me into once: that of his pretty little victim who’ll tell him exactly what he wants to know._ He _knows it – and what’s more,_ I _know it._

_My body may be weak, but my mind is still strong. I’ve changed in the year since we last met: from some small-time thief and sellsword to a powerful warrior with the soul of a dragon and the “blessings” of the Daedra._

_I know that this could very well kill me. I’m all too aware that I could die here in this darkness: alone and without anyone ever knowing that I was here. But I owe this to myself, and I owe it to them, my friends. This is the only way I could ever hope to forgive myself, by making sure that I don’t repeat my past mistakes._

_Lions have teeth and claws that are easily blunted – but not so with a dragon. As long as I’m alive, I will never give Orthorien what he wants._

_Not again._

* * *

“Is it settled, then?” Both palms pressed against the wood of the table in the officer’s tent, Ulfric examined the blueprints one final time. “Are we ready?”

“Aye,” Galmar growled. “We’re plenty ready.”

Lifting his head, the jarl took a long, lingering look at each of the figures huddled around the table. Brynjolf and Karliah, in their Nightingale’s armor and silently determined. Babette, arms akimbo in a youthful, yet mature show of defiance. Cicero (for once, standing still and not giggling madly) and Nazir, fingering their weapons restlessly. Vilkas and Farkas, standing side by side in a near-mirror image of the other. Aela, chin up and silver eyes eagerly aglow. And Galmar, arms stubbornly crossed over his chest, gruffly stolid as always.

 _I can believe that._ “We have all waited for this moment, and now, it is time,” Ulfric said, straightening up and looking each one in the eye. “Tonight, we strike at the Embassy. We will rid this land of the Thalmor once and for all, and we will save the Dragonborn from their clutches. We came together for her... and now, we will stand as one against the Dominion. Not for ourselves, but for this cause.”

“For the Guildmaster,” the thieves murmured.

“For our sister,” the assassins agreed.

“For the Harbinger,” the Companions added.

“For the Dragonborn,” Galmar finished.

The jarl paused. “For Kajsa,” he finally said, one gauntleted hand brushing against the hilts of his war axe and Queen Freydis’ sword. _For the woman that only I seem to know. For the woman who can get under my skin so well. For the woman that hides from a world that praises her name. For the woman that will stand by my side when this cause that I have fought for is finally won._

_For Kajsa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Mentions of torture
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	43. Blood Will Have Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I know I tagged the fic as a whole with "Graphic Depictions of Violence," but really, it's just this chapter that even comes _close_ to that.
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["The Wolf," Phildel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CghQKrk0hWM)

The darkness of midnight was not without disturbance tonight. Masser and Secunda hung high in the sky, illuminating the slender, sparse pine trees on the mountain peak. Softly fluttering snowflakes, pinpricks of ever-shifting white, whispered through the air. Ahead, the angular stone walls of the Thalmor Embassy were thrown into shadow, both from the moonlight and the single flickering lantern that hung over the gateway to the inside. The tableau was a surprisingly peaceful one.

Crouched behind a boulder, Galmar smiled to himself. _It’s a nice night to split some witch-elf skulls._ He shifted his grip on his battleaxe in anticipation; he’d made sure to sharpen the blade before he left the encampment. _This should be good._

Babette, shrouded in the red-and-black robes of a Dark Brotherhood assassin, slunk up next to him. “My brothers and Aela are in place and ready to go on the signal.”

“Well, it’s about time,” the housecarl growled. “How many on the battlements?”

The vampire shrugged. “Not many. I did a sweep around the perimeter and counted three or four wizards, as well as some soldiers.”

Galmar glanced behind him. Vilkas and Farkas, as well as a sizeable amount of heavily armed Stormcloaks, lay in wait behind the foliage and the rocks. _I’ve had worse odds._ “We’re ready, then.”

Babette carefully cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a low, mournful whistle. If the general hadn’t been right next to her, he would have sworn that it sounded like a bird call – albeit a slightly shriller one than was usual for a nightbird’s.

Behind the ornate bronze rails that crowned the Embassy’s walls, a Thalmor soldier clad in shimmering elven armor stopped in his tracks and listened for a moment. Galmar tensed, his fists clenching around his battleaxe.

In an instant, the soldier fell back without a sound as a single arrow sailed through the air and stuck in his neck, directly in the gap between his chestplate and helmet. There was a muffled clatter, and then nothing.

The little girl smiled wickedly. “And then there were none.”

Two indistinct shadows emerged from a pile of boulders and slid along the outside walls, stopping and crouching by the tall gates barring the entrance to the courtyard. One of them knelt down to fiddle with the lock, while the other kept its head up and on a swivel. Finally, both of them stood cautiously and pulled open the gates – and a squeal of hinges broke the still.

The housecarl tensed even further. _And I thought these people were paid to do their job_ quietly!

Babette hissed in anger and the shadows immediately fled, pressing themselves to the walls. Beyond the half-open gates, there was a flicker of movement as a lone figure appeared, hesitantly stepping out into the courtyard.

Galmar’s eyes widened when he saw the armor. “Imperial,” he spat. _If there are more of them, that might throw us off badly._

“Who’s there?” the soldier barked, scanning his surroundings. Suddenly, he rushed to the main gate with his sword drawn – only to be stopped by a pair of flashing blades squarely in his chest.

The Imperial crumpled, but croaked out one last command. “To arms –!” His cry was cut off by a quick slash across his throat from a scimitar.

But the damage had already been done. Lights flickered to sudden life in the windows of the Embassy’s barracks. Leaving the body behind them, the shadows sped across the snow and vaulted over the boulder to land beside Babette and Galmar.

“It looks like you’ll get the fight you wanted,” Nazir commented wryly, wiping off his blade on the snow. “Maybe it’ll be a little messier and a lot harder to come out on top, but you’ll have a nice bloody battle all the same.”

Cicero nodded eagerly, out-of-breath from excitement.

The general frowned. _Thalmor..._ and _Imperials. The odds are no longer directly in my favor. They can’t have too many people, though; it’s an embassy, not a military camp!_

“I think we can take them,” rumbled Farkas.

“Of course we can,” Galmar snapped. “It’s an unexpected development, but it’ll be more fun for us.” He pointed at the assassins. “You three: try to redeem your little mistake by slipping into the Embassy and getting rid of whoever’s inside. We’ll take care of the ones out here.”

No sooner had he finished his sentence than the gates were flung wide open with a metallic shriek. A neat formation of Thalmor wizards marched out, magic crackling over their palms and cradled with claw-like fingers, with soldiers armored in elven and Imperial gear alike flanking them with their weapons at the ready.

The housecarl grinned savagely. “Let’s go get ‘em.” He stood to face the might before the coalition, brandishing his battleaxe menacingly. “Hey! Over here, you yellow-skinned bastards! Want a piece of me?”

* * *

Brynjolf glanced around with distaste at the splintered, yellowing bones scattered around the frozen dirt floor of the cave. “I think I realize now why this cave was included on the blueprints: it’s a dumping ground.” He kicked aside a half-crushed skull as he trudged through the snow.

“For victims both dead and alive,” Karliah murmured, looking back at the dead frost troll lying in a mangled heap by the entrance. “This is... barbaric.”

“What else did you expect from the Thalmor?” Ulfric remarked darkly.

“Even for them,” the Dunmer amended. “But I suppose they’re not used to many people crawling _out._ ”

“It’s all about the element of surprise, lass,” the Second bragged, hoisting himself up onto a rocky ledge. “The Thalmor outside are going to be preoccupied with the jarl’s housecarl and the Companions, and the Thalmor inside will have their hands full with the assassins. No one’s going to be watching the dungeons.”

The jarl nodded absently, clambering up onto the ledge after the Nord thief. After wearing it for so long on the journey through the Reach, the steel plate didn’t have the same weight that it did before. _It is one of those sensations you get used to eventually._

Standing on some loose boulders, Karliah managed to grab onto the edge, scrabbling to hang on. “Help me up, you two.”

Grabbing hold of her arms, Brynjolf and Ulfric hoisted her up easily.

“Many thanks.” Crouching on the surface, the Dunmer scanned the icy network of boulders ahead of them, ever increasing in height. “I wonder if it was already like this when the Thalmor arrived.”

“Already like what, lass?” Planting one hand on the wall for support, the Second cautiously inched on ahead.

“The rocks in the cave form a steep sort of stairway.” Karliah traced a vague shape in the air with one finger. “Easy for people to fall down, but nearly impossible for them to get back up. If this formation was already here, then the Thalmor most certainly took advantage of it.”

The jarl frowned. “I hope your saying of ‘nearly impossible’ means that you can scale it.”

“You’re in luck, Jarl Ulfric.” Rising to her feet, the Dunmer padded over the snow to Brynjolf’s side, at the base of one of the largest rocks. “Give me a leg up, Bryn. I’d be willing to bet that that hole up there is the entrance to a tunnel.”

The Nord thief went down on one knee with his hands cupped on top of the other knee. Karliah lightly stepped on his waiting palms, grasping some of the cave’s icy protrusions for support. Brynjolf then stood slowly, lifting the other Nightingale upwards. Both feet planted on the side of the boulder, the Dunmer crawled out of sight, vanishing into the hole in the cave’s ceiling.

Suddenly, she poked her head back out. “I was right. There’s a tunnel up here – and it looks like there’s some kind of a light up ahead.”

“We’re coming, lass.” Taking a few steps back, the Second ran towards the boulder, leaping at the last moment and scrambling up through the entrance.

Gripping the very edge of the tunnel’s opening, Ulfric walked his feet up the side of the wall and hoisted himself up into it. The tunnel was noticeably less icy than the caves, but it was darker, narrower, and undoubtedly more cramped.

Standing slowly so as to avoid hitting his head, the jarl followed the shadowy figures of the Nightingales up to the end, emerging into a small chamber with dirt walls. There were a few thick wooden beams that had been nailed together to give it support, as well as some wooden crates – one with a dying lantern sputtering on top of it – and, beyond the low ceiling beam, a rickety-looking wooden ladder.

Ducking to avoid some ragged clusters of hanging moss, Karliah climbed up the ladder and hung there for a moment, one ear pressed to the trap door.

“What are you listening for, lass?” the Nord thief asked.

The Dunmer motioned for him to be quiet, her violet eyes grave as she listened intently. Finally, she jumped down and crept back towards them.

“Are there people in the dungeons?” Brynjolf asked.

Karliah nodded. “Two soldiers and one wizard, by the sound of it.”

“What were they saying?” Ulfric cut in curtly.

“They were discussing a change of plans, due to the Embassy being attacked. The wizard was ordering the soldiers to gather up any incriminating files and either burn them or give them to her to smuggle out. And –” she paused for a moment, but soldiered on “– they were saying something about a – a prisoner transfer.”

The jarl’s blood ran cold for a moment. _Kajsa._ “Is she still here?” he demanded.

“By the sound of it, yes. Apparently, First Emissary Elenwen was arranging for her to be shipped to Alinor in a week for her to be executed for her crimes against the Dominion, but seeing as the Embassy is attacked...” The Dunmer’s voice trailed off, her face looking grim. “They’re preparing for her departure tonight.”

* * *

The battleaxe’s blade sank into the wizard’s chest with a _thunk_ and a splatter of blood. Planting one foot on the Altmer’s stomach, Galmar used his leverage to dislodge his weapon from the corpse, letting it fall to the snow-covered ground beside an Imperial legionnaire and some Thalmor soldiers.

“Mages,” he grumbled, glancing around at the chaos before him. “Impractical and insane, the lot of them.”

At the very fringe of the woods – the edge of the battlefield – the housecarl was more than capable of witnessing the carnage in front of the Embassy gates. In the dark of the night, very few figures were readily distinguishable from one another, but every so often, a fireball shot from the hands of a Thalmor wizard would illuminate the blue of a Stormcloak cuirass or the leather of Imperial armor or the glistening gold of elven armor for a split second before it met its target. The frosty air, once so silent, now rang with battle cries, the clashing of weapons, and the groans of the dying. Blood and bodies, many from both sides, covered the snow, becoming a coating unto itself.

He would have rather jumped off a cliff than admit it, but Galmar was feeling a little less confident than he had been before. He hadn’t anticipated how much the combined forces of the Thalmor and the Imperials were outnumbering them; the Stormcloaks were definitely giving as good as they got, but it seemed as though for every one of the enemy’s troops that fell, two of his own were falling alongside them.

Vilkas had been watching his back at the beginning, but he was now on the other side of the battlefield, slicing his way through a cluster of Thalmor soldiers. The general had no clue where Farkas was, let alone Aela, who he hadn’t seen since she left with the assassins to take down the guards on the wall walk. The assassins were on a suicidal course inside the Embassy and there was no telling if they were alive or not. And of course, he had no idea if Ulfric and the thieves had even made it to the Dragonborn yet.

There was no denying it: this was _not_ going in their favor.

An arrow whizzed past his ear, and Galmar’s head snapped up – just in time to see an Imperial legate barreling down on him, sword drawn and shield up.

The housecarl brought his battleaxe up, bashing the handle into his attacker. Though he staggered back, the legate quickly recovered, angling his long, angular shield and swinging it towards him with surprising strength.

Galmar grunted in pain as the edge of the shield cracked into his ribs before he could ward it off. _Shor’s stones, I’d forgotten how much those damn things hurt._ Standing his ground, he swung out again with his battleaxe.

The Imperial blocked most of the blow, but the axe’s blade lodged in his shield. Seizing his chance, Galmar pulled back, nearly yanking the shield off his opponent’s arm before his weapon came free, feeling a rush of satisfaction at seeing the legate’s dislocated arm hanging uselessly by his side.

Suddenly, the Imperial kicked out, catching the general in the shin. Galmar growled, slicing through the air again in a attempt to hit the enemy, but he had no such luck. The legate brought the flat of his sword down on the housecarl’s shoulder, knocking him to his knees. Galmar could almost hear his bones bruising as they cracked down onto the icy ground.

 _Son of a bitch!_ Gripping the handle of his battleaxe with both hands, the general raised it above his head and locked his elbows to ward off the blows of the Imperial. But with every swing, he could feel his strength giving a little more.

The legate laughed harshly. “You’re going to die at my blade, old man!” He lifted his sword once more, pointing it downwards for a killing blow –

A roaring howl suddenly split the night, echoing out over the tumult of the battlefield. The Imperial briefly glanced away to try and see the source of the noise, and then he was gone, knocked to the ground by a hulking, shadowy blur. His sword fell harmlessly at the housecarl’s feet, clattering on a rock.

Galmar fell back, slowly shifting his battered body away as his disbelieving eyes took in the sight before him. A monstrous beast, with fur as black as the night sky and long, sinewy limbs, crouched over the terrified legate. With one swipe of its paw, tipped with jagged claws, it tore out the Imperial’s throat, spattering blood over the snow.

Howling its triumph, the beast swung its massive head around, scrutinizing the general directly with keen silver eyes. Now that the moonlight caught its shape, Galmar could see that the shape of its snout and the form of its tail were much like that of a wolf, yet its muscular torso was almost like that of a human. But it was distinctly neither being.

Then, it hit him. _Am I – am I looking at a_ werewolf?

Before he could do or say anything, the beast loped towards him on all fours. Catching him in its jaws by the back of his armor, it dragged him over the snow as though he weighed no more than a small child. Galmar tried to struggle, but eventually fell limp, just as it finally dropped him behind an isolated boulder far from the battlefield.

Hoisting himself up to a sitting position, ignoring his fatigue and aches, the housecarl made to pick up his battleaxe to defend himself. The werewolf scampered away, baring its teeth to send a warning: _Don’t even_ think _about it._

Galmar frowned. “Are you... saving me?” he muttered aloud.

The beast tossed its head, rolling its silver eyes in an almost contemptuous gesture, as if to say, _Well, what do_ you _think?_

“All right,” he grumbled. “I suppose you are.”

The werewolf snorted in a sort of laugh. Padding back towards him with one paw outstretched, it pushed the general up against the underside of the rock and out of sight. The message was clear: _Stay here. Don’t move._

He almost laughed, but winced at the pain in his ribs. “It’s not like I can move, let alone fight anyone.”

Snorting again, the beast bounded away, kicking up snow in its wake and vanishing into the darkness with a long, eerie howl, leaving the housecarl to stare after it.

* * *

“Intruders!” Drawing their weapons with one hand and readying destruction spells with the other hand, the two soldiers advanced over the straw-covered floor.

Cursing, Brynjolf sprung up from his crouch by the trapdoor, brandishing twin dwarven daggers. He spun suddenly, knocking both of the surprised Thalmor back with the flats of his blades, and then craned his head over his shoulder to shout back at his companions. “Come on, you two!”

Kneeling at the edge of the trapdoor, Ulfric grabbed Karliah’s outstretched hands and helped her up through the narrow opening, tugging her to a standing position as he stood as well. The Dunmer immediately flitted out of the corner and backed up a low flight of stairs, pulling an ebony bow off her back and nocking an arrow in a smooth, practiced motion; the jarl joined the Second’s side, unsheathing Queen Freydis’ sword as he did so to ward off a blow from an elven mace.

Karliah’s arrow sailed over their heads, hitting the Thalmor wizard in the chest. The Altmer collapsed back with a _thud,_ the towering frost atronach at his side crumbling apart in jagged chunks of ice on the floor.

Bringing up one foot, Ulfric kicked one of the soldiers in the stomach. As the doubled-over Thalmor staggered backwards against one of the square wooden columns that supported the exposed roof beams, the jarl strode forward and drove the point of his sword into the Altmer’s throat. Pulling his blade out and letting the soldier’s corpse slide to the wooden floor, Ulfric turned around hastily.

Brynjolf was casually sheathing both of his daggers, the other Thalmor soldier lying dead at his feet with a pool of blood around her head. “Like I said: the element of surprise. They definitely weren’t expecting us.”

“I just hope we didn’t make too much noise.” Karliah put away her bow as well, but drew a thin, needle-sharp ebony dagger from a sheath at her hip and held it at the ready. “If someone heard that racket, we could be in for an unexpected visit.”

“By the time someone comes down here, we’ll be long gone.” The Nord thief scanned their surroundings. “I don’t think we’ll need to stray far from here to find what we’re looking for.”

The jarl glanced around as well, taking in the dimly lit chamber. The only illumination came from a few candles on a desk in the corner, and the glow of the candle flame painted jagged strips of light on the wooden walls and the low ceiling beams. To the left, there was a line of small cells with metal doors; straight ahead, in the best-lit area, a rack leaned back leisurely alongside a table with a leather case of wicked-looking blades on it. In the corner, several white-hot brands heated over a small fire.

Ulfric felt a chill go down his spine with the realization of what this was hit him. _By the Nine... a torture chamber._ Memories from the Great War stirred in the back of his mind, and he swallowed, willing them away.

As she walked past, Karliah touched him on the shoulder in a silent, but steadying gesture. “Kajsa must be somewhere in here, Jarl Ulfric.” She turned back briefly to address Brynjolf. “Bryn, check the cells for any sign of her.”

“Aye.” The Second strode to the end of the cell block and stopped there, peering between the bars of the door and into the darkness.

The Dunmer knelt beside the Thalmor wizard, rifling in the folds of the corpse’s black-and-gold robes before producing a leather-bound notebook with some loose sheets of paper stuck into it. She glanced at the jarl, holding up her find. “Do you suppose that these are some of the ‘incriminating files’ that I heard about?”

“There’s only one way to find out: read them.” Ulfric approached the fire with the brands over it, noting the crumpled papers quickly shriveling into nothing more than ash. Tugging out a charred scrap from the edge of the flames, he squinted at the elegant, swooping script on it, but could only make out two words:

 **_Operation Priesthood_ ** _  
_

He frowned, letting the shred of parchment slip from his fingers and fall back into the fire. _Where have I heard that name before?_

Brynjolf’s voice cut through the silence. “Jarl Ulfric... I’ve found her.”

Heart hammering in dread, the jarl strode over to the Nord thief’s side, with Karliah on his tail, and squinted into the cell. Through the thin bronze bars, he could see a slight, slender form sprawled in a pile of dirty straw, ragged umber hair shrouding her face and bloody rags barely concealing her skin.

 _It_ is _her. It is truly her._ “Is she alive?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” the Second said quietly. “But if we got the cell door open...”

“I’ll try.” Karliah knelt by the lock, pulling out a lock pick and a tension wrench from a hidden pouch on her armor. “Bryn, look around and see if you can find a key. It could make things go much faster.”

The Nord thief immediately dropped to the ground and hastily began searching through the Thalmor wizard’s robes. Pacing back and forth, Ulfric watched Karliah intently as her nimble fingers positioned the lock pick and the tension wrench, carefully turning the lock, and then repositioning the pick – only to have it snap halfway.

“Got it.” Brynjolf tossed a ring with a single iron key on it to the Dunmer. “Let’s hope it’s the right one.”

Putting away her tension wrench and leaving the shards of the lock pick on the floor, Karliah inserted the key into the lock and turned it again. There was a small _click_ and the door popped open. The Dunmer stood and slipped into the cell, crouching besides Kajsa and placing two fingers at the base of her throat.

The jarl followed after her, lingering at the doorway. “Is she –?”

“Yes. She’s alive.”

Ulfric exhaled heavily, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. “But?”

“She’s unconscious.” Karliah carefully lifted up one of the Dragonborn’s eyelids and then let it fall. “My guess is that she’s heavily drugged, but I’m not sure from what; Babette could probably do a better job of telling you that than I.”

“Then we need to get her out of here,” the jarl said. “Immediately.”

The Dunmer nodded. “Absolutely. We won’t remain undiscovered forever.”

From the stairway behind them came a low, amused chuckle, followed by a voice that sounded like a blade shearing through silk. “How right you are.”

* * *

Battleaxe sheathed on his back, Galmar grimly surveyed the ground in front of the Embassy’s gates. Countless bodies – Stormcloak, Imperial, and Thalmor – lay scattered on the bloodied snow, stiff and motionless. The air had fallen silent and still once again, but the quiet now seemed eerie instead of peaceful. Overhead, the sky was still dark, but the stars and the moons were both slowly slipping away to make way for morning.

 _Well, despite how long this whole disaster was dragged out, it looks like we won._ The housecarl did a quick scan of the battlefield again; all of the soldiers left standing were in Stormcloak blue. _But_ how _we won is another mystery._

Spotting the distinctive red-and-black garb of the Dark Brotherhood assassins by the flung-open gates, the general headed towards them, trying not to wince at the jarring of his knees and the ache in his ribs. _Those buggers are still alive; they’d better have some good news. But where are the Companions?_

At the sound of sniffling, he stopped and glanced over to his left, and then slowly stepped forward for a closer look. A female Stormcloak, her helmet off and her tears making streaks down the war paint on her face, knelt by the fallen body of one of her comrades. As he watched, she lifted her amulet of Talos from around her neck and tucked it into the dead Stormcloak’s cold hand.

With a start, Galmar recognized the man’s serene face. _Ilfhild._ He sighed regretfully, remembering the hunt for the Jagged Crown. _He was a damn good soldier. It’s a shame he had to go to Sovngarde so soon._

The female Stormcloak looked up. Startled, she guiltily leaped to her feet. “General Stone-Fist! I – I didn’t realize –”

 _Hroa. I remember her as well... though perhaps not in the best way._ “There’s no shame in honoring a fallen comrade,” he reassured gruffly.

Hroa nodded, her eyes welling up with more tears. “He’s – he _was_ my – my older brother.” She hastily wiped them away, leaving her eyes red and raw. “When we joined the Stormcloaks, he said that – that he’d look after me, no matter what. But – I should – I should have looked after him, too –” She buried her face in her hands, sobbing anew.

The housecarl patted her on the shoulder, a gesture that came out more stiff than comforting, then met her eyes. “Did you kill the bastard that did this?”

She nodded, jerking her head towards a Thalmor soldier lying not far off.

“Then I’d say you’ve looked after your brother.” _Women and their sentimentality._ Galmar straightened up, abruptly changing the subject. “How did the battle end?”

Hroa sucked in a shaky breath. “It looked like we were going to lose for a while – and – and then the wolves came.”

The general frowned. “‘Wolves’?” _There were_ more _than one of those things running around the battlefield?_

“Two of them. I know this sounds a little crazy, General, but – they didn’t even attack the Stormcloaks. They just targeted the Thalmor and the Imperials. Killed them all.” Hroa had stopped crying, but she was now chewing her lip nervously. “They won the battle for us... and then they just vanished as quickly as they came.”

 _Well, there’s only one way to confirm this._ “Were they really wolves?”

The female Stormcloak shook her head. “No. They – they –” She broke off, lowering her voice. “I know you’re going to think I sound like a lunatic, General, but – I think they were werewolves. Half man and half wolf, like in the old stories.”

 _So... I really wasn’t hallucinating, then._ Galmar paused for a moment, not quite sure what to say. Then: “Hroa –”

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stony-faced Vilkas striding up to him. Waving away Hroa, the housecarl turned to face him. “Where are the others?”

“Farkas and Aela are by the gate with the assassins.” The Acting Harbinger set his jaw a little more firmly. “During the battle, the latter unlocked the doors of the Embassy and... _dealt with_ those inside.”

“Any sign of Ulfric and the thieves?”

The other shook his head. “There was one building that they couldn’t get into. If my memory of the blueprints serves me correctly, it was the ambassador’s solar. My guess is that Jarl Ulfric and the thieves are in there somewhere.”

Galmar grinned viciously. “Then the fight’s not over yet.” He unsheathed his battleaxe and began striding off across the battlefield with Vilkas behind him. _We’re coming, Ulfric. Don’t do anything stupid._

* * *

The hem of his black-and-gold robes slinking behind him on the steps, hands folded genteelly behind his back, the Altmer stepped down off the stairs and surveyed them with uncanny golden eyes. His gaze flitted from Karliah – to Brynjolf – before finally settling on Ulfric, and the ends of his thin lips quirked into a cold smile.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” There was a sort of mocking stress placed on his surname. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

The jarl stiffened, one hand straying to the hilt of his sword. “I wish I could say the same for your arrival,” he shot back.

Light, derisive laughter filled the torture chamber. “Ah, Nords,” the Altmer mused. “Your ability to form simple sentences is highly impressive.” He made a slight bow. “But where are my manners? I am Justiciar Orthorien Aundae of Alinor.”

 _Orthorien._ Ulfric remembered the name from the dossier, and his fist now clenched around his sword hilt. _The bastard that tortured Kajsa... within five feet of me._

“Those are all the formalities I am willing to give.” The Justiciar straightened up, narrowed golden eyes turning cold. “The fact of the matter remains that you are trying to steal away my greatest work – and one of the most heinous traitors to the Aldmeri Dominion – and you will not succeed in doing so. The Embassy may have fallen to your little army of sycophants, but you will not be alive to lead them so long as I am standing.”

“Brave words for a monster.” Karliah’s soft tones were full of loathing.

Orthorien laughed again. “A monster, am I? No, dark elf: I am an _artist_ , a master of the persuasive and arcane arts _._ You – _you_ are but a common thief, like dear Katarina once was.”

Brynjolf unsheathed his daggers again, poising one to throw. “Let’s see how much of an artist you are with a blade through your heart.”

It happened in the blink of an eye. The dwarven dagger left the Second’s hand and went flashing through the air. Flitting out of the way, the Altmer conjured a roiling purple void in one hand and threw it to the ground. It expanded suddenly and then vanished in smoky shadow as a Dremora Lord, armored in gleaming red-and-black Daedric armor with its greatsword raised, charged out of it and towards the Nightingales.

“And now,” Orthorien purred, turning towards the jarl and drawing a Daedric sword with an enchantment glimmering along its curved, jagged blade from his side, “let us see how much of a warrior _you_ truly are, Jarl Ulfric.”

* * *

Darkness concealed her sight and blurred her senses, but she still heard the cacophony ringing in her ears: hoarse battle cries, the clashing of blades, and stomping footfalls on the floorboards.

Kajsa came to, sucking in gulps of stale air. Pressing one palm against the straw-covered floor, she attempted to push herself up, wincing as pain shot through her shoulder and ribs. She finally settled for propping herself up on one elbow and letting her head drop down, feeling the scabbing wounds on her back stretch to the point of splitting.

Despite the pain, she felt stronger – more strong than she had ever felt during her long imprisonment. Somewhat weaker and more fragile in body, perhaps, but her mind, casting off the shackles of the drugs and poisons that she’d been forced to ingest, was clear and focused once again. _And that’s what I have need of the most._

She flexed her fingers of her free hand experimentally, but only a weak spark of fire sprung to her fingertips. _Only to be expected – magic doesn’t come naturally to me._

Squeezing her eyes shut, she reached within her mind for a Word of Power, any Word. They seemed to flood into her anew, dizzying her as their sounds echoed within her skull: _FUS – YOL – JOOR –_

A harsh, guttural, inhuman voice rang out. “A challenger is near!”

The Dragonborn’s eyes snapped open. Her vision blurred and swam for a few moments with motion too rapid for her to track and colors that flickered in and out, but then the objects around her took recognizable shapes.

Suddenly, memories resurfaced and for the first time, her mind grasped where she was. _I’m in the Thalmor Embassy... in the torture chamber._

Another voice: soft and accented, but furious. “By Nocturnal’s grace, I _will_ defeat you!”

 _Karliah!_ The Nord woman’s head snapped up, ignoring the throbbing in her skull.

Two figures in full Nightingale armor – one small and lithe, the other broad-shouldered and powerful – danced with blades drawn around a colossal figure in Daedric armor ( _a Dremora Lord,_ she corrected herself). The summoned being kept them well at bay with wide swings of its serrated greatsword, but the Nightingales kept dangerously darting in to stab at unprotected gaps in the armor, capes whipping around them and making them near-indistinguishable from the shadows in the room.

A third voice, deep and rumbling. “Come on, you bastard! Fight!”

 _Ulfric!_ Kajsa whipped her head around to try and see him.

The jarl, clad in steel plate armor and wielding his war axe and Queen Freydis’ sword, faced off against a tall figure in black-and-gold robes ( _Orthorien,_ she realized with dread) with a Daedric sword in one hand and an Alteration spell crackling in the other. The candlelight shone off Ulfric’s steel and illuminated the ruby sparks from Orthorien’s enchanted blade. Constantly shifting position to gain the upper hand, they slashed and stabbed, hacked and cut at each other, assailing the other’s defenses unceasingly.

Much to her surprise and dread, the Justiciar was a more-than-competent duelist: weaving in and out around his opponent on light feet, executing daring maneuvers of swordsmanship. But his cultured techniques and nimbleness were fast wearing thin under Ulfric’s raw strength and unbridled fury.

 _Is this real? Or just a hallucination?_ Pushing herself up to her knees, the Dragonborn scrabbled for the bars on the door to support herself, but her fingers clawed through air. Startled, she glanced around for the door of her cell before it hit her.

 _The door’s open. It’s open._ She wanted to laugh in triumph, cry in joy. _This is happening. They’re here. They’re freeing me._

Suddenly, she jerked back as the bulk of the Dremora Lord slammed into the floor just in front of the threshold, twitched for a moment, and then lay still before it was consumed by the purple void from whence it came. Glancing around for the Nightingales, she glimpsed them in a corner, the smaller one leaning over the larger one, propped up against a wall with his arm at an unnatural angle.

Kajsa made to crawl towards them – but she was jerked back and roughly hauled to her feet. Not used to holding her weight, her knees buckled underneath her, but whoever was holding her had a tight grip around her torso, restraining her arms and keeping her upright as the tip of a blade pressed into her stomach.

Hot breath enveloped her ear as her captor spoke his threat slowly and deliberately. “Not a step closer, or Katarina dies.”

Both of the Nightingales’ heads swiveled around in alarm. Ulfric, already turning to anticipate Orthorien’s move too late, froze in place.

“Now,” the Justiciar continued, “drop your weapons.”

The jarl’s hand tightened around his war axe and he made to raise it and take aim. Kajsa felt the Daedric sword bite into her flesh as a warning and she cried out involuntarily.

“I said, _drop your weapons_.” Orthorien snarled. “Now!”

Karliah slowly slid both of her ebony daggers away from her, shrugging her bow and her quiver of arrows off her back. Brynjolf pushed his remaining dwarven dagger the same way with his unbroken arm. Finally, his gaze never leaving hers, Ulfric lowered both his war axe and Queen Freydis’ sword to the ground and kicked them away.

“Thank you for your custom,” the Altmer said coldly. “Now, if you will excuse us, there is a ship leaving for Alinor tonight that we must be on.”

The Dragonborn closed her eyes, but could not stop the one frustrated tear that streaked down her cheek, nor the anger that twisted her lips. _After all this... it’s all for nothing. I’m going to die at the hands of the Thalmor._

Deep inside her, she could feel the fury building within her like dragonflame, burning with eagerness for blood and death and revenge, to tear down mountains and conquer all that opposed her. Her blood boiled in her veins with the wrath of a _dovah._

 _No. I will_ not _die like this._ Her eyes snapped open again as the single Word of Power came to her lips: hovering, waiting to be released.

Grabbing the pommel of Orthorien’s sword, she let the Word fly, nearly screaming it in the deathly still. “FEIM!”

It immediately took effect, her body becoming as light and untouchable as air, all of her pain vanishing in a heartbeat. Tightening her grip, she drove the blade home with all of the strength she had left – through her body and into the one behind her.

“KAJSA!” Dimly, she heard the inhuman cry of terror and grief that ripped out of Ulfric’s lips. “NO!”

Even to her ethereal, invulnerable body, the jagged blade was cold as ice and she shuddered uncontrollably as it pierced where her stomach should have been. Gritting her teeth, she drove it in even deeper.

Orthorien let out a strangled, choking sound, and his grip on her slackened as his body went limp. No longer feeling him behind her, Kajsa tugged out his sword from its mortal sheath, the coating of blood on the blade’s tip dripping on the wooden floorboards. Breathing heavily, she turned around to witness her handiwork as she felt her earthly body returning to her.

The Altmer lay slumped on the floor: hands pressed desperately over the wound in his stomach, staring up at her with disbelieving golden eyes. He coughed violently and a trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. “Katarina –” he gasped.

She didn’t say a word, only scrutinized him for a moment with narrowed eyes as her anger returned with white-hot fierceness. _I want to make him suffer. I want to string him up and whip him, to tie him down and brand him. I want to make him bleed, cry, beg for mercy as I once did. I want to make the predator the prey._

 _But – but what if I become him?_ She swallowed hard, feeling the thumping of her heart ringing in her ears.

As if sensing her thoughts, Orthorien laughed weakly, but mockingly. “I see it in your eyes, Katarina. You want the same things I once wanted. Domination. Submission. Control. And I got them from you.”

She met his gaze challengingly. “Not anymore.” _I know what I have to do now._

Slowly, the Dragonborn raised the sword, so heavy in her white-knuckled hand, and brought it down, slashing across the unmarred flesh of his cheek. The Altmer let out a cry of pain, raising one shaking hand to the wound before he dropped it again to try and stave off the blood that seeped through his robes.

“Do you remember when _you_ marked me as such?” she whispered savagely, kneeling over him gloatingly. “Your little parting gift to me before you put me on the cart to Helgen? Well, I’m returning the favor.” She dragged one dirty fingernail down the cut, making him wince. “That one’s for Kugrash.”

She brought up her arm again, the Daedric blade whistling through the air before it met the Justiciar’s face again, creating another slash. “That one’s for Faelwen.”

Tightening her grip on the hilt, she carved out a third, bloodier cut on the same cheek, this one exposing bone. “That one’s for Tariq.”

Finally, she took hold of the sword with both hands and lifted it high above her head. “And this one’s for me.”

With that, Kajsa brought down the blade with all of her strength and buried it in his heart, his lifeblood spraying out. She yanked it out and felt him fully collapse underneath her as the light in his golden eyes flickered out, leaving them dull and listless.

 _He’s dead._ Falling back as the pain running throughout her body took over again, the Daedric sword clattering by her side as it slipped from her hands, the Dragonborn let out a long shaky breath as her head swum unsteadily. _Orthorien’s dead._

Two strong arms caught her before she could hit the floorboards and her head lolled back against a broad shoulder armored in cold steel. The last thing she saw before her weariness caught up to her and sent her spiraling back into unconsciousness was a pair of blue-green eyes – the only lights visible as darkness crept back over her vision and took her once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst is past... or is it?
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	44. The Calm After the Storm

Far in the distance, down towards the base of the mountain, thick, acrid smoke curled up from between the tops of the pine trees. From the wall walk of the Embassy, behind the ornate bronze rails, Ulfric somberly watched as the wisps slowly wafted up into the grey clouds drifting overhead in the colorless sky.

Dawn had arrived that morning grim and pale, without the cheer of a clear blue sky or sunlight, but instead carrying with it cold and frost. But it had also brought with it work to be done, starting with taking care of the battlefield. The dead Stormcloaks were being burned on a funeral pyre, with their ashes scattered to the winds. No such honor was offered to their enemies; the bodies of the Imperials and the Thalmor – including those killed inside the Embassy buildings, such as Orthorien – had been dumped in a mass grave, left for predators to scavenge. Outside, the only signs that there had ever been a battle in front of the Embassy gates were the smoke from the pyres and the bloodstains on the snow.

Inside the Embassy’s walls, there were more visible signs of last night’s struggle. Tents had been pitched in the inner courtyard to shelter the majority of the surviving Stormcloaks, while the wounded were being tended to in the main hall, which had been converted into a makeshift hospital. Babette had been busying herself with mixing potions and preparing poultices for the injured soldiers, while Karliah, and occasionally, Nazir, had been tending to the wounded personally with varying degrees of success.

Most of the coalition, however, did not emerge from the battle completely unscathed. Galmar was generally battered with some bruised ribs and sore knees, but had insisted, much to Babette’s exasperation (and the jarl’s amusement), that he was perfectly fine. Brynjolf’s arm had been broken during his fight with Orthorien’s conjured Dremora Lord. Cicero was covered with electrical burns from a run-in with a Thalmor wizard who had blasted him repeatedly with Chain Lightning. Aela had suffered some slashes to her torso and shoulders that she’d had Karliah stitch up; upon Vilkas snidely remarking that she should have been more careful, the Huntress had shot him a foul glare.

And then there was Kajsa.

After the battle, the still-unconscious Dragonborn been moved to an upstairs bedroom in the ambassador’s solar. In between churning out remedial concoctions, Babette had been taking care of her, with Karliah keeping watch when the assassin was occupied elsewhere. Ulfric hadn’t seen Kajsa since she’d been moved, but he’d been petitioning Babette to let him in her room just to see her.

“‘No’ means ‘no,’ Jarl Ulfric,” the vampire had finally said after the fifth time. “Kajsa’s in delicate condition, and she needs urgent care, not a slew of visitors tramping through her room.”

“When will I be able to see her?” the jarl persisted.

Babette had sighed heavily, but not with exasperation. “I don’t know. Perhaps when she stabilizes. Until then, I wouldn’t plan on making the triumphant return to Eastmarch any time soon.”

The sound of heavy boots clomping unevenly down the wall walk interrupted his thoughts, and Ulfric turned his head from the vista in front of him to see who it was.

It was Galmar. “Any reason why you’re freezing your ass off out here?”

The jarl smiled humorlessly. “Waiting for news.”

“I’ve got some for you, but you might not like it.”

Ulfric’s eyebrows arched in alarm. “What is it, Galmar?” _If it is about Kajsa..._

“Vilkas and Brynjolf finally got into the Embassy’s records room.”

“A treasure trove of information,” the jarl mused, relieved.

“And one with a very recently unsealed hidden passageway leading out of the Embassy,” the housecarl growled, “which would explain the absence of a certain snooty Altmer bitch from the counted casualties.”

“Elenwen.” Ulfric’s hands clenched into fists. _If she is still alive, there is no telling_ what _she will do..._ “Muster a search party from the most able-bodied men we have and order them to search the surrounding area for any sign of her.”

“It’s as good as done.” The general made to turn away, but then he hesitated.

The jarl noticed. _That is very unlike him._ “What is the issue?”

Galmar turned back to face him, and for the first time in a long time, Ulfric saw trepidation in his friend’s eyes. “During the battle... I saw something. Something that I would have never believed if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes.”

Ulfric frowned. “What did you see?”

“Jarl Ulfric?” Farkas’s deep voice called from somewhere in the distance. Both men craned their heads around to see the Companion striding towards them and then coming to a stop beside them. “I have a message for you. From Babette.”

The jarl’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. “What does she say?” he demanded.

“It’s about Kajsa. Babette says that you can come see her now.”

“And her condition?” Ulfric pressed.

Farkas paused, and then simply shrugged in genuine lack of knowledge. “I – I don’t know.”

* * *

Carefully closing the door behind him as he went inside, Ulfric entered the bedroom. It was a square chamber, built, like the rest of the Embassy, in the elegantly minimalistic style of Solitude: walls of plaster and stone, floors of criss-crossing milky tile, accents of silver or blue here and there. Thanks to the color scheme and the lack of a fire, the room felt much colder and quite unwelcoming.

From where he was standing, the jarl could see a small, thin lump huddled underneath the blankets on the wooden four-poster bed. Karliah stood by one of the thin, glass-paned windows with her arms crossed, gazing out into the falling evening, while Babette sat in a chair by the bed, gazing down at its occupant; both looked up as the jarl approached.

“How is she?” Ulfric asked quietly.

“Better,” the vampire said succinctly, rising from her seat. “She stirred a while ago, but she hasn’t woken up yet. I gave her a tonic to help her sleep a little sounder while the other drugs in her system are wearing off.” A shadow briefly passed over her face.

The jarl, lingering at the foot of the bed, looked over at the assassin. “How serious is her condition?”

Babette fiddled with the sleeve of her dress for a moment, not meeting his eyes. Then: “I’ve lived for over three hundred years, Jarl Ulfric, and I’ve been with the Dark Brotherhood for a good part of them. In my lifetime, I’ve seen a lot of gruesome things, but...

“It – it’s not so much that her injuries are serious. It’s that whoever tortured her inflicted them very... _deliberately._ Precisely.” Now, she raised her crimson eyes, serious and solemn, to his. “This is a kind of torture not meant to maim or cripple or kill, but rather to _mark_.”

“In what ways?”

Karliah spoke up, her voice soft and grim. “He burned her with destruction magic. He re-opened all of the scars on her body. He heavily drugged her so she couldn’t fight back. And he took great pleasure in it.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s vile.”

Ulfric felt his hands clenching into fists. _And gods know what else he did to her... the Thalmor love to toy with their prisoners through mind games._

“We don’t know about any mental effects yet,” Babette said, almost as if she was reading his thoughts, “but I would refrain from asking about her imprisonment once she wakes up. There’s bound to be some trauma from this, and I don’t know how it’ll affect her.”

The jarl swallowed. _Nightmares. It will be nightmares, like before..._ “Do you think she will ever recover?”

“Physically, there’s a very good chance. Kajsa’s young and strong, and –” the vampire snorted “– considering her activities, she’s in fairly good health. Besides, she has the dragon blood, so that’ll definitely assist in her recovery. But mentally...” She shrugged. “Only time will tell.”

Ulfric exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. “Do you mind if I – if I have a moment alone with her?”

Babette shook her head. “Not at all. Just be quick – I need to keep an eye on her.” Darting around the jarl, she made for the door, followed by Karliah.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Ulfric sat down in the chair vacated by the vampire and leaned back, suddenly feeling very weary. Propping up one elbow on the armrest, he slowly focused on the woman in the bed.

Kajsa lay on her back underneath the mound of blankets, all of them pulled up to the tops of her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed steadily. Raw umber hair, grown somewhat longer and lanker, pooled around her head on the pillow, framing her thin face. There were only two bandages that he could see: one thick one on her far shoulder, the shoulder where her scars from Alduin were, and a thinner one covering the scars on her face.

The startling image struck him. _The Dragonborn of legend, strong and heroic and believed near-invincible... laid as low as this by a – a –_ Choked by anger, he could not find the words to finish his sentence.  

Reaching into the pocket of his robes, he produced a worn, hand-carved Amulet of Talos strung on a leather cord – _her_ Amulet of Talos – and placed it on the nightstand. Wood clinked against wood, and then the room fell silent again.

“It is yours,” the jarl said quietly, directed towards her. “Brynjolf found a chest in the torture chamber with your effects: your armor and the amulet. He couldn’t find the necklace I’d given you.” _That bastard Orthorien probably disenchanted it out of spite._

Standing up, he regarded the frail, still woman in the bed for a moment before leaning over her. Brushing some hair away from her forehead, he pressed his lips to her cool skin for an instant and then pulled away, a lump rising in his throat.

_Akatosh, Kynareth, Shor,_ Talos _... I beg of you,_ please _... do not take her from me now._ With his final prayer and a last, long look at Kajsa, Ulfric turned around and slowly walked to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	45. Fever Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Whisper" by Evanescence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcJUNajLMYA) and ["42" by Coldplay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0xfWCDLoCU)

_Darkness – darkness all around her, thick and black and impenetrable. Shadows seeping into her skin, blurring, fading until they were one with her._

_She belonged to the night, to the silence, to the darker side of things. She had no need to see or hear or smell or touch or taste – she_ was _shadow, and the shadow was she._

_Spinning around with her arms flung wide, she crowed exultantly... but almost as soon as it had begun, the laughter died on her lips._

 

“Babette, should I give her some more of the tonic?”

“Why do you –? Oh. I see.”

“I thought you would.”

“Go ahead, but add some crushed mountain flowers and canis root to it beforehand. It’ll take care of the tossing and turning.”

 

_Faces. Faces and figures, looming out of the night around her – and all very familiar._

_A slight Breton woman with flaming curls wreathing her face, and a broad-shouldered, hunched Nord man with graying stubble. A burly Nord man with blackened skin along his jaw and a leering, hungry look in his eyes. A lithe Dunmer man with rings glinting on his fingers and a red topknot and beard._

_A heavily muscled Orc with swirling tattoos covering his biceps, and a petite Bosmer woman with piercing eyes and a shaved skull. A silent quartet of four figures, all hooded and clad in grey Guild leathers._

_A scowling Breton man with keen olive eyes and scars running down his unshaven cheek. A Nord woman with honey-colored hair and a poisonous smile on her lips. A balding Nord man with one blind eye, and another with braided, snow-white hair and a swirling black knot of war paint on one cheek._

_They surrounded her, all of these people from her past... and they kept closing in._

 

“I don’t think it’s working. Either that or it’s taking a bit to work.”

“It could be just the drugs working their way out of her system...”

“Have you _ever_ seen any toxins work like _this_?”

“Well... not exactly, no.”

 

_Suddenly afraid, she began to run as the shadows around her shifted and crawled, some lightening and others darkening. The darkness rushed around her like a huge wave, wind roaring in her ears and pouring into her lungs._

_Behind her, the figures faded from view, vanishing back into the shadows from where they came as bitter winter winds howled, whipping snow around her face. Grey, broken stones littered the ground around her, surrounding the towering statue of the beautiful, yet cruel snake-woman with sword raising triumphantly overhead and the pillar – the tall pillar with glowing light snaked around it, with the sinister letters carved at its base – at the mountain’s peak._

_For the first time, she realized where she was standing: the Sacellum of Boethiah._

_Then she saw him._

 

“Babette, I don’t think this has anything to do with the drugs that Orthorien gave her.”

“We don’t know that for certain, Karliah! We have no way of knowing what foul concoctions the Thalmor have come up with!”

 

_Skin burned black by the harsh sun of the Alik’r Desert, and muscles forged by a lifetime of swordsmanship. Strong chin and hawk-like nose against a face with firmly defined planes. Dark dreadlocks pulled back in a knot at the nape of his neck, and thick brows over tawny eyes. Lips curved in a smile, revealing even white teeth._

_Just as she remembered him._

_Still smiling, he stepped forward, holding out one calloused hand. She reached for it – just as her wrist was seized by another hand, one with pale golden skin and long, graceful fingers and a vise-like grip._

_As she watched numbly, the fingers curled over her own, clenching her hand into a fist with her pointer finger extended towards the pillar in a commanding gesture._

_And he nodded in understanding. “I trust you, my lioness.” His voice was low and worn smooth, with little trace of the Hammerfell accent that it had once held. “With my life.”_

 

“Karliah? Do you suppose that she’s... _dreaming_? Of – of – you know –”

“Blessed Nocturnal... I think you may be right.”

 

_As soon as he touched the pillar, it was as if he was bound with invisible cords. Back flat against the fiercely glowing stone, feet just barely touching the ground and hands behind him, the smile faded from his face to be replaced by a flat, emotionless mask._

_But there was still trust in his eyes._

_A steel dagger – one of_ her _daggers, with the scratches and the fraying leather on the crossgrip – was pressed into her hand by the other golden-skinned, long-fingered hand. Her own fingers tightened around it as the hand around her wrist loosened, and she stepped forward._

_Only two steps and then she was standing face-to-face with him, the dagger raised. She could see the light in his eyes reflected in the blade, and she knew that he still held faith with her._

_She closed her eyes and brought her lips up to meet his – and felt them grow cold as she plunged the dagger into his chest._

 

“Should we wake her up?”

“I don’t think so, Babette. Chances are, she may very well wake up on her own.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

 

_It was only when he collapsed to the snow-covered stone with his lifeblood running down his torso that she realized what she’d done._

_With a cry of grief, she sunk to her knees, cradling his limp body in her arms and rocking back and forth, once-warm tears freezing in his hair and leaving tracks down her face. She felt herself shaking from the cold and from the sobs that wracked her frame._

_A low, amused chuckle found its way to her ears, and she looked up to see_ him _standing there, face shrouded by the pointed hood of his gold-and-black robes – but the golden eyes underneath it gleamed in triumph. He’d drawn a Daedric sword with crimson sparks from an enchantment dancing along the edge of the blade, and he held it at the ready._

 _“Come quietly, Katarina,” he purred, “and perhaps I may consider being..._ kinder _towards you.”_

 

“Karliah, we _need_ to wake her up! Just _look_ at her!”

“What is going on here?”

“Jarl Ulfric, I’ve told you not to come in until –”

“Oblivion take your rules! What is wrong with Kajsa?”

 

_Tears temporarily dried with anger, she struggled to her feet with her hand still clenched around the steel dagger. As she did so, the craggy runes around her feet thrummed with energy, commanding her attention. She looked down, reading the unearthly script for the first time:_

**I AM ALIVE BECAUSE THAT ONE IS DEAD.**

**I EXIST BECAUSE I HAVE THE WILL TO DO SO.**

_Lifting her gaze, she smiled viciously. She stalked towards him, slowly and deliberately, her feral snarl growing wider as he backed away._

_Suddenly, he snared her, snaking one arm around her waist and pulling her close to him, trailing the fingers of his free hand across the scars on her cheek. “I will stay with you longer than any other friend or lover that you have ever had, Katarina,” he whispered into her ear. “It will do you no good to kill me.”_

_She hesitated for only a moment before she drove the dagger into him, stepping away as he collapsed to his knees. She felt curiously numb, not sure whether to exult in the kill or to kneel by his side and try to staunch the bleeding._

_He only looked up at her from beneath pale eyelashes and smiled, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. “You cannot kill what is already dead, Katarina. That is why_ you _are still alive.”_

 

Kajsa jolted upright, a hoarse half-scream on her lips, tears and sweat on her face, shaking uncontrollably. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she collapsed over them, gasping for air in between choked sobs. _It’s true. It’s all true. It doesn’t matter if he’s dead or alive... I will never be rid of him._ She squeezed her eyes shut to dam her tears, but they kept coming all the same.

A small hand touched her shoulder. “Kajsa? Are you – are you awake?” The higher-pitched voice of a child.

She stiffened and her crying stilled. _Who is this? Where am I?_

Slowly lifting her head as though it was weighed down, the Dragonborn glimpsed silver and blue and the wooden post of a bed through the blur of her tears. After some furious blinking, more details swam into view: elegantly carved wooden furniture, pointed windows paned in glass, walls of plaster and stone – and two figures, one smaller and one larger, but both still unclear.

The larger figure, standing at the edge of the bed, stepped in a little further. “Kajsa, can you hear me? Speak to me.” A deep, richly rumbling voice that stirred memories in the back of her mind.

“Guildmaster.” Now it was the smaller figure, in a soft, quiet voice. “Are you all right?”

The hand left her shoulder and another figure, tinier than both of the others, joined the others. “ _Please_ answer, sister!”

Raising a shaking hand, Kajsa rubbed away the rest of the stinging tears from her eyes. With her vision finally clear, she now saw who they were: a young Breton girl with long auburn hair and red eyes, a Dunmer woman in ornate armor of black leather, and a bearded Nord man wearing fur-lined robes.

Her eyes lingered on each of them for a moment, putting elusive names to near-forgotten faces. _Babette. Karliah. Ulfric._

She opened her mouth, and her voice came out strained and raspy. “Water.”

Babette immediately flitted to the nightstand, lifting up a pitcher of water and pouring it into a blue-glazed goblet. Setting the jug down, she passed the goblet to the Nord woman. Kajsa tilted it back and downed the drink all at once, relishing the relief it gave to her dry throat and mouth. Some of the water dribbled down her chin in her haste, but she just wiped it away when she plunked the goblet back on the nightstand.

Karliah observed her, concern in her violet eyes. “How do you feel, Kajsa?”

For the first time, the Dragonborn noticed that her whole body was stiff and sore, constrained by bandages fastened taut over her skin. She didn’t have to see them to know that most of them were crossed over her back – _over the whip scars_ , she added mentally. Her skull still throbbed painfully in some parts, but her mind felt strangely clear.

She tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out as more of a grimace as the scabbing cuts on her cheek stretched. “I – I’ve been better.”

Ulfric exhaled heavily, laughing in relief; the sound lifted her spirits up a little.

Babette grinned. “That’s welcome news.” She examined her critically. “I should probably change those bandages, though. They’ve been on you ever since –”

Kajsa nodded, sparing her sister speech. “If you don’t mind, Babette, could that wait until I –?” Her gaze drifted back to the jarl.

Glancing from her to Ulfric and back again, understanding dawned on Babette’s face, and she hastily retreated from the bed. Karliah followed her out of the room, closing the door behind both of them.

After a moment, Ulfric sat down on the bed beside her and folded his hands before him, blue-green eyes grave as he silently contemplated her. There was something in his expression that almost seemed almost sorrowful – regretful, even – and it disturbed her; pity was not something that she was used to.

“You shouldn’t have come.” Her voice sounded distant, unfamiliar.

His brows drew together _– a frown; I can handle that._ “And why is that?”

 _Because I could have destroyed us both._ “You’ve left the Imperials in the Rift and left Windhelm undefended. One of those would be bad enough, but _together_ –” She let out a breath, short and shallow, and pushed her hair back from her forehead, her fingers tangling in the knotted locks. “And Tullius –”

“The Rift is ours; Galmar took Riften after your disappearance,” the jarl said, an impatient edge to his tone. “Even Tullius would not dare to march so far into hostile territory now, not even to strike at Windhelm.”

“But you could have lost the war!” she insisted, her voice catching. “Everything you’ve worked towards, everything you’ve fought for – you could have lost it all!” Her breaths were coming shorter now. “Gods and Daedra, Ulfric, what were you _thinking?_ ”

“Without you, the war would have been lost long ago!” he snapped. He sighed then, and his next words were softer. “Without you, _I_ would have been lost.”

The Dragonborn stared at him, a lump rising in her throat. “I never wanted you to do this,” she whispered. “I didn’t even want you to _know_ –” _Not until the war was over. Not until I knew I could bend you to my will and you wouldn’t even mind._

“What you might have wanted was very different from what you needed,” he said sharply. “You _needed_ my help. Are you not pleased to have gotten it?” His gaze had darkened again, boring into her accusingly.

“Pleased to _not_ be shackled in the hold of a ship bound for Alinor?” she retorted, but the harshness she wanted wasn’t there. “What do _you_ think?”

Ulfric looked away from her, his forbidding expression crumbling; he suddenly looked much older and more tired than she’d ever seen him before. When his voice finally came, it was thick and ragged with emotion. “I do not know what more I can say to you.”

“Meaning?” She shifted her position so she was turned towards him, the blankets pooling around her hips and legs; she noticed that she was still wearing the same leggings and breast band that she had worn during her imprisonment.

Sighing quietly, the jarl met her eyes again. “I have worked words to my advantage my whole life. I have learned Words of Power, and I have stirred thousands to pledge themselves to my cause. But with you –” he swallowed “– it makes no difference what I say, because my words will not be enough to heal you. They will not be enough to express how sorry I am.”

“What is there for _you_ to be sorry for?” Kajsa asked, her voice finally breaking. “This is _my_ own fault, Ulfric. _Mine._ You couldn’t have stopped me from going to Riften, from setting myself on this path.” _You couldn’t have turned back time and stopped me from coming to Skyrim in the first place... from meeting_ him.

He smiled humorlessly. “You do not give me enough credit. I damn well could have stopped you.” Placing one hand on her uninjured shoulder, the jarl leaned in and kissed her – a hard, desperate kiss.

Her heart aching with every beat, she returned it, cupping his face with her hands. And then she realized, unexpectedly: _I missed him. I missed him so much._

She suddenly found herself enfolded in his embrace, half-on and half-off his lap with her arms tightly wrapped around his shoulders and her body pressed against his, as if she was afraid that she’d fall if she let go. Feeling the tears return to her eyes, she buried her face in his chest to staunch them, her body shaking with the effort of containing her sobs.

“Oh, Kajsa.” His voice was soft now, almost gentle. One of his hands found its way to her lank, dirty hair, stroking it as though she were a small child in need of comfort. “You are safe now, Kajsa. This – this will pass. You will be all right, in time.”

 _Will it?_ she thought bitterly. _Will it ever be all right? These scars I have... will they ever heal? Will a day pass where I won’t be reminded of – of_ this _? Of_ him _?_

Trying to push the hopelessness and the pain from her mind, she closed her eyes and held on to Ulfric even tighter: losing herself in the warmth of his arms and his gentle touch and the sound of his voice murmuring soothingly. Her tears finally started falling, soaking his robes, and she cried until she had no more tears in her eyes and a soul that felt much emptier and even more hollow than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... I had to take a break after working on this chapter because I thought it was going to make me cry. _Me,_ the author! *Sniffles, grabs tissues*
> 
> Anyway, feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs (hopefully, less angsty ramblings than what you'll find in this fic)!


	46. Separations and Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Timshel," Mumford and Sons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_5t2sTaYlw)

It was absolutely freezing in her chambers.

Suppressing a shiver and drawing her knees up towards her chest a little further, Kajsa drew the thick, fur-lined blanket around her a little tighter. If it were in her power, she would have built a fire, but the only places a hearth could be found in the Embassy were in the kitchens and in the torture room.

_This just confirms that the Thalmor are a bunch of cold-hearted bastards... even Nords need roaring fires this far up North._ Leaning forward in the seat of the chair, she peered out of the window and down towards the courtyard, but saw nothing but the light from a few scattered lanterns, distorted by the glass.

The Dragonborn slouched back with a flat sigh. _Not time yet._

Babette had matter-of-factly explained the proceedings to her earlier this afternoon. Now that she had recovered sufficiently, the coalition (and the entourage of soldiers that it had brought with it) needed to move out quickly and make for Windhelm. Haafingar – and what’s more, Solitude – were not the Stormcloaks’ yet, and it was risky for all of them to stay any longer.

Kajsa had half-heartedly volunteered to lend a hand with preparing for the departure, but the vampire had flat-out refused. “You’ve sustained quite a bit of injury, and you still need to recover,” she’d scolded on her way out of the room after stopping by to drop off her Guild leathers. “You’re well enough to travel, but you’re not out of the woods just yet. Besides, I’d have Oblivion to pay if Jarl Ulfric found out.”

_Ulfric..._ A lump rose unbidden in her throat. _Of_ course _he’s being... protective._

After she’d woken up in the early hours of the morning, the jarl had stayed with her, answering question upon question. Slowly, through his responses, she’d pieced together why he and the Nightingales and the assassins and the Companions were all here: Ulfric had rallied them upon finding out that she’d been captured by the Thalmor, and together, they’d marched on the Embassy. To hear his story had made her heart hang heavy in her chest – _it wasn’t enough that he risked himself; he had to risk my_ friends, _too –_ but she tried her best to seem grateful, even though they both knew by now that she would have preferred him to come alone, or not at all.

He hadn’t asked her anything about what had happened to her, and for that, the Dragonborn was truly grateful. It was too much to hope for him never wanting to know what had happened, but that was a problem for another time.

In truth, she was trying to forget as much of her ordeal as she could, but it wasn’t easy. There were too many reminders of what she’d gone through: some in her head and some on her body.

After Babette had left her with her black Guildmaster’s leathers and some other clean clothes, Kajsa had stripped out of her dirty leggings and breast band, and, naked save for the stained bandages, she’d walked to the mirror in the corner of the room and silently assessed the damage. She found plenty of it.

She’d clearly lost a lot of weight during her imprisonment; her ribs made ridges and valleys along her torso, and her cheekbones and her knuckles seemed ready to pierce through her skin. Her body was wholly thin now, without any of the slight curves lent to it by lean muscle. She’d disbelievingly trailed her fingers over where her waist used to be, where the bone of her hip now protruded, finding only flat, cold straightness where there was once a warm, deep curve.

The only new marks on her skin were the silver burns on her arms that would probably never heal and the cuts the whip had left on her back, her buttocks, and up and down her legs. The rest were old wounds that _he_ had re-opened: scars from Alduin’s teeth, or Karliah’s arrow, or Mercer’s sword, or one that _he_ had marked her with himself. All of it was superficial, nothing too deep or serious, but most would probably scar, anyway.

She’d never considered herself attractive or even pretty, but as her fingers had brushed over the bandage on her cheek, the rather vainly melancholy thought that she’d never possess any quality of beauty now that this had happened crossed her mind. _Not just for my newest scars... for what goes along with them._

Slowly, her hands fumbling and shaking, the Dragonborn had resolutely covered up her scars, concealing them from imagined pitying eyes. Babette had warned her that the drugs in her body probably hadn’t worn off yet, and it looked as though she had been right. Her movements felt stilted and sluggish, as if she was dragging her limbs through mud. It still amazed Kajsa that she was able to fasten all of the buckles and straps on her Guild armor and tie her father’s Amulet of Talos around her neck again; her fingers were nowhere near as nimble as they used to be, and they dragged and wandered lazily over the metal and leather, refusing to go where she wanted them too.

But the lingering drugs weren’t the worst part of it. The nightmares were.

It was still early in the morning, still dark outside when Ulfric had finally left her chambers – but she didn’t want to fall asleep. She just sat up in bed, her spine ramrod-straight and stiff as her eyes drank in the dimly lit room around her, half-expecting to see one of the shadows in the corner _move_ with a glint of golden eyes: watching her, inspecting her, crawling over her like some thousand-legged creature.

She thought that the jarl suspected. After all, he _had_ asked her about them at least once during the months she’d stayed in Windhelm, and he _was_ present for her last nightmare, the one that had awoken her for good. Again: it was only a matter of time before he asked for answers.

_But do I_ want _to tell him? I – I’ve never told_ anyone _about any of it: what I went through before and after I came to Skyrim, my nightmares,_ him _..._

_And I don’t yet know if I can..._ She rubbed at her forehead with her hands. _Gods and Daedra, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go..._

_He was never meant to see._

There was a knock at the door.

Lowering her hands, Kajsa twisted around in her seat, craning her head towards the source of the noise. “Who is it?”

The response was muffled by the door. “Vilkas.”

She hesitated for a moment, lips tightening. “Come in.”

The Companion obeyed, closing the door behind him. He slowly approached the chair, carefully scrutinizing her. She could only imagine what he saw: a brittle ghost of the woman he once knew, one with shadowed eyes and hollow cheeks, with old clothes hanging off her frame and wounds that were plain to see.

He crossed his arms over his chest: uncomfortably, awkwardly. “You look like shit,” he finally said.

The Dragonborn smiled wryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Vilkas snorted. “Your sense of humor hasn’t changed much, though. I suppose some might take that as a good sign.” He glanced down towards his feet, falling silent.

“Why are you here?” she asked abruptly. “I would have thought you’d be helping to prepare for our departure.”

The Acting Harbinger raised his eyes, eyebrows drawn low over them. “I needed to talk to you. Before Galmar did.”

She returned his frown, albeit one more confused than his expression. “Galmar? What’s he got to do with anything?”

Vilkas sighed irritably, running his fingers back through his dark hair in an attempt to straighten it. “During the battle for the Embassy... he – _saw_ something he shouldn’t have. _Everyone_ did, but he’s the only one who’s actively seeking answers. He tried Jarl Ulfric first, and he’ll probably be coming to you next.” His disgusted frown grew deeper with every word.

“What do you mean?” Kajsa said exasperatedly.

“Aela and Farkas took the beast form,” the Companion spat.

The Dragonborn lifted an eyebrow. _That’s it?_ That’s _what he’s so worked up about at a time like this?_ “And why should I care? It’s their choice.”

“You should care because they would expose those of us who still have the beastblood. You should care, _Harbinger_ –” he infused her title with surprising venom “– because all of the Companions would be put in harm’s way again.”

“Expose to _who_ , exactly?” Kajsa asked mockingly. “The Silver Hand are gone, remember? We killed them all.”

“There are still the Vigilants of Stendarr. And there will always be the superstitious peasants who appeal to the jarls for protection.” He glared at her fiercely. “You might not care any longer, now that you’re rid of that curse, but you need to think of what’s best for the Circle.”

The Dragonborn stared at him coolly. Then: “Sure. Let’s talk about how you refusing to lend aid to the coalition is ‘what’s best for the Circle.’”

Vilkas’ face didn’t change. “Jarl Ulfric told you that, didn’t he?”

Kajsa nodded curtly.

His eyes narrowed, and the expression turned to one of pure hatred. “The two of you... gods, it makes me sick. You’re just like Aela and Skjor were: wrapped up your own little world without a thought of taking responsibility for your actions, feeding each other lies to justify what you do.”

Rage urged the Dragonborn from her seat, white-knuckled hands gripping the arms of her chair to keep her from falling. “Don’t you dare, Vilkas!”

“I _will_ dare. It’s time you heard the truth.” He stabbed an accusatory finger at her. “I have _tried_ , time and time again, to see the good in you and what you do, and I have _tried_ to understand what you live for. I have _tried_ to lay aside my quarrels with you, and I have _tried_ to respect you as a warrior and as my equal. But I’m done with trying!” The last sentence was nearly shouted.

“You should have just taken the beast form like the others, Vilkas,” Kajsa said quietly, caustically. “It would have done wonders for your temper.” She considered him closely now, her rancor gone. “Is that the only reason you came along? To get the witches’ heads so you could cure yourself?”

“And my brother,” the Acting Harbinger corrected through gritted teeth. “There is no reason he should suffer from this anymore.”

“Unlike you and I, Farkas actually seems to have a grip on the beastblood. So really, it all comes down to what _you_ want,” she shot back. “You’re just as ‘selfish’ as I am, Vilkas... just in different ways.”

He was silent for a moment, eyes cold and resolute. Then: “Sometimes, I wish you’d never set foot in Jorrvaskr in the first place, _Harbinger._ Life would have been easier for all of us that way.

“We will never see eye-to-eye. We will never be friends. Now that we’ve met for one last time... I can accept that now.” He turned away, his face set like stone. “So go back to your jarl and his war. Get yourself killed in this petty power struggle. See if the Companions care if we never see you again.” With that, he opened the door and left abruptly without even slamming it behind him.

Kajsa’s mouth suddenly felt very dry, and it only grew more parched and empty with every shallow breath. Sinking back into her seat on top of the fallen blanket, she leaned over her knees and covered her face with her hands. But she did not cry.

_At least we’re done beating around the bush,_ a more calculating part of her commented, trying to convince her. _We were horrible friends, anyway. It’ll be better to not see him... or Farkas... or Aela... or any of them, really._

_It would be easier just to break away from – from a place I don’t belong._

A warm, broad hand grasped her wrist and gently pulled her fingers away from her face. “You all right, lass?”

The Dragonborn glanced up. Brynjolf and Karliah, both dressed in warm traveling clothes with their weapons by their sides, stood in front of her; she realized they must have come in through the open door.

She smiled weakly. “I’m good.”

The Second snorted. “I call bull on that, lass. Something’s bothering you.”

“Or someone,” the Dunmer added softly. “Was that Vilkas that we saw coming from your room a moment ago?”

Kajsa nodded, exhaling heavily. “Not worth talking about.” _I’m dead to him... so I suppose he should be dead to me, too._

“We just came to tell you that we’re clearing out,” the Nord thief continued. “We’re ready to leave the Embassy tonight. Just making sure that nothing or no one that we need is left behind.” He smiled. “That would be unfortunate, eh?”

Standing up slowly, the Dragonborn made a half-hearted effort to return the gesture. “It would.”

“Brynjolf,” Karliah suggested, “why don’t you go and do a quick sweep of the other rooms? Kajsa and I will head for the courtyard.”

“Sure thing, lass.” The Second turned and left.

The Dunmer watched him vanish out of the doorway and into the hall for a moment, and then faced Kajsa. “I’m not sure when we’ll next see each other, so I’ll tell you this now. But first: how much did Ulfric tell you about this whole venture?”

“A lot. Gathering the coalition, the journey, the assault... most everything.”

“Did he mention how we knew where you were?”

The Dragonborn frowned. “I – I might have asked him about that. That was the only question he didn’t answer; he said I’d have to talk to you or Bryn about that.”

“He was right to do that,” Karliah mused. “We – Brynjolf, Jarl Ulfric, and I – summoned Nocturnal and asked for Her help.”

Kajsa’s eyes widened in incredulity. “You – you did _what?_ And it _worked?_ ” _Nocturnal handing out favors... wonders never cease._

The Dunmer nodded. “She gave us the answers we asked for... at a price. She –” She paused for a moment, then continued. “She asked us to find someone to be Her next Nightingale. A very specific someone.”

“Who?”

“His name is Ronan Sorleigh.” Karliah’s face took on a grim cast. “Apparently, his father was Mercer Frey.”

The Dragonborn scowled at the name, but remained silent.

“I know. I don’t like it, either. The best we can hope for is that the son does not reflect the father in character.”

“That might be too much to ask for.” Kajsa pursed her lips in thought. “You should ask Delvin about this once you and Bryn get back to the Cistern. Just say that you need to find someone and leave it at that. We’ll deal with the fact of his parentage once he’s found.”

The Dunmer considered it for a moment. “It’s a start. I just pray that Nocturnal doesn’t have something... _unpleasant_ in store for the Guild.”

“We’ll just go along with it for now.” The Dragonborn smiled sourly. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’ll see what this _Ronan_ is like first.”

“Yes, Guildmaster.” Karliah eyed the other’s apparel with some concern. “You should talk to Tonilia about refitting that armor.”

Kajsa waved her concern away. “Now that I’m actually eating and drinking with fear again, I’ll fill it out in no time.”

“Of course.” The Dunmer’s gaze softened. “I’m sorry. I had forgotten that –”

“Just don’t mention it.” The Dragonborn made to brush past her.

“Kajsa.” Karliah placed a firm hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “Look at me.”

The other Nightingale obeyed, albeit a little sullenly.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Vilkas,” the Dunmer said, “but I’d advise you to try not to lose his friendship. He – well, I don’t know him that well, but he seems like the kind of person who’d be a loyal friend.”

Kajsa shrugged. “Too late.” _He deserves more honorable friends, anyway._

Karliah sighed. “All right. It was probably none of my business anyway. But... if you ever decide to heed my advice, do it now.” She fixed her eyes on the Nord’s, violet to dark brown. “Do _not_ stay silent again. What you’ve gone through – you should speak to someone. Better yet, speak to Jarl Ulfric.”

“But I _can’t_!” the Dragonborn choked out.

“Why not?” the Dunmer pressed.

“Karliah, I’ve never told anyone about – about _any_ of this or my – my imprisonment before that. _Never_. It –” She struggled for words, breath coming fast to keep back sobs. “Have you ever talked to anyone about Gallus’ death? I know you’ve never told _me_ , but –”

“No.” Karliah looked away, her face pained.

“And why haven’t _you_?”

“Because I am ashamed of my inaction,” the Dunmer said quietly. “It is the greatest regret of my life. If only I’d realized sooner what Mercer was doing, I could have saved Gallus... and I didn’t. Even now, I can’t bear thinking about it.”

“Exactly,” Kajsa finished, swallowing hard. “It’s the same with me, Karliah. But – but if I tell anyone – especially Ulfric – I fear that it will make them realize that – that –”

“That what?”

“That I really am a – a –” tears were trickling down her face now “– a traitor. A murderer. A _monster_.” The Dragonborn brought her hands up to her face as if they were a shield, shutting the other out.

“Oh, Kajsa.” Karliah wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “I know. I know it’s hard to confess weakness. But if anyone can hope to understand... I think it will be him.” She brushed away some limp hair from the Nord woman’s damp face. “You may not realize it, but he cares about you greatly.”

Kajsa lifted her head, her eyes red.

“He might not have told you outright – a man like Jarl Ulfric probably does not confess feelings very often – but I can see it in the way that he acts,” the Dunmer continued. “Even now, he worries so much about you, but he is waiting: waiting for you to make the first move.” She looked into the Dragonborn’s eyes again, this time with a sense of urgency. “I don’t believe that he will press you without your permission. It’s up to you, Kajsa. _You_ need to be the one to break the silence.”

The other bit her lip: not weeping anymore, but still wavering. “And – and if he thinks less of me?”

“He won’t. I wouldn’t. Not many people survive after being in the Thalmor’s clutches _twice_ , and those that do certainly do not deserve to be looked down upon.” Karliah gripped Kajsa’s forearms. “Promise me that you will tell him. You _must_ , for your sake.”

Very slowly, after a long pause, the Dragonborn nodded. “I – I will. I promise that I will tell him.”

“Soon?” the other prompted.

“Soon.” Kajsa looked away. “Soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full story is about to come out...
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	47. The Summons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [More amazing art](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/post/125760372758/sketchbook-pages-couplekissing-pose-practice) from [pixelartlinda](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr - I always love seeing her sketches; they're so beautiful!

The face reflected in the silver pitcher on the long, low table was that of a stranger.

Kajsa scrutinized herself in the makeshift mirror for a moment; to her surprise, she managed to see some sort of a change for the better. _I suppose the journey back must have done me some good after all._

The coalition had left the empty Embassy in the dead of night, riding and walking in near silence and not stopping for food or sleep until they were safely out of Haafingar and into Hjaalmarch. They’d stopped briefly to rest in Morthal, but when the sun came up, they’d continued onwards. Where the road split, both the assassins and the Companions said their goodbyes to the others and went their separate ways, towards Dawnstar and Whiterun, respectively; the Nightingales stayed until they reached the border of Whiterun and Eastmarch, at which point they bade the others farewell and went down the road to the Rift. After spending the night at the Nightgate Inn and rising early next morning, what was left of the coalition – just herself, Ulfric, Galmar, and the soldiers – arrived at Windhelm that afternoon. The Dragonborn felt nothing but profound relief when she finally caught sight of the imposing stone walls; in that moment, Windhelm was a more comforting sight than anything she’d ever seen.

She was finally beginning to feel a little better overall, as well. Even though she’d been traveling for the past few days, she held no major aches besides the minor soreness she’d already had. Last night at the Nightgate Inn and tonight as well, she’d stuffed herself full of hot soup and thick cuts of meat, sating her hunger for food that she could actually eat without fear; her stomach had roiled, unused to such rich foods after near-starvation, but thankfully, she’d managed to keep it all down. She’d begun to remove some of the smaller bandages, finding that some of the smaller cuts and burns were healing well – _one of the benefits of having the_ dovah sos _running through my veins,_ she’d thought wryly.

In addition, now that’d she’d settled back into Hjerim, she’d had an opportunity to clean herself up as well. She’d drawn herself a bath, and then sat and soaked in the warm water for what seemed like ages, scrubbing all of her dirt and grime from the road and her imprisonment off. While her hair was still wet, she’d found a pair of shears by the herb racks in the kitchen and trimmed her hair into a more presentable style; it was longer than what she was used to, now hanging down to her shoulders with the front pulled away from her face in two messy braids. After going through the nearly-bare wardrobe in her bedroom, she’d found a tunic and leggings that were small enough to fit her.

But all of this preparation only deepened the hollow feeling in her chest.

 _No matter how much I cleanse myself and attempt to hide it, I’ll always have these scars._ Kajsa turned and walked away from the pitcher and the table it rested on. _And no matter how long I try to delay it... I’ll still have to talk to Ulfric._

The jarl was waiting for her at the Palace of the Kings, waiting to hear what she said she’d tell him. When the coalition had reached the gates of Windhelm, before she lost her nerve, she’d asked him if she could have an audience with him that night.

He’d only smiled. “And what could make you think that I would refuse the Dragonborn an audience.” He’d kissed her forehead then, one reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Come by tonight and we will talk.”

Just remembering the conversation twisted her lips in a grimace as her stomach roiled. _I can’t do this. I can’t. What will he think of me –?_

Standing alone in the middle of the entryway floor just reminded Kajsa of how empty Hjerim felt at times. Yes, it was probably the largest house she owned – but the vast, dark rooms of wood and stone held _space_ , cold and gloomy. Space for memories both pleasant and others less so.

Her mind flashed back on the night that Ulfric had gifted the house to her. She’d left her worries about the Thalmor and Karliah’s message behind for that one night, in order to talk and laugh and dance with him. She could almost hear the tune he’d been humming, the sound of their feet beating in time against the floor ringing in the still air.

 _He makes me... forget myself at times._ She brought her hand up to the Amulet of Talos around her neck, fingers brushing against the wood. _When I’m with him, I don’t have to worry as much about who I am – what I’ve done..._

 _But_ now _... I do._

* * *

“Fort Hraggstad’s going to be a bitch and a half to capture,” Galmar growled, scowling at the little red flag on the map. “The Imperials lost a couple of regiments retaking that fort from bandits, and then they sent a couple more regiments to go lurk in that crumbling old wreck to make sure no one took it from them again. At this point, it’s probably more heavily fortified than Solitude itself!”

“I have faith that you will find some way in,” Ulfric replied evenly. “You will have at least an eighth of the army with you; you will outnumber the legionnaires easily.”

“But I won’t have the Dragonborn with me!” the housecarl retorted. “She’s one of the only things that the Legion seems to fear, and with bloody good reason. If I had her with me, she could probably take over Fort Hraggstad single-handedly!”  

“ _If_ , Galmar,” the jarl reminded. “You know she is in no condition to fight right now.”

“But the Stormcloaks need her,” the general insisted. “Dammit, Ulfric, at this point, she’s the biggest reason we’ve been winning; she alone has turned the tide of the war in our favor! Shor’s stones, isn’t that the whole reason we ran off to the Thalmor Embassy to get her back? To go on without her would be suicide, and you know it!”

“So you intend to lead her to the slaughter.” Ulfric’s voice was low and threatening.

Galmar pointed a finger at him warningly. “Don’t you dare start twisting my words now. You know I’m right, Ulfric; you’re just too stubborn to admit it. She might be your little favorite, but you can’t shield her forever. She’s _Dragonborn_ , for Talos’ sake – she doesn’t seek out trouble; trouble comes and finds her.”  

The jarl was about to open his mouth to respond angrily, but he was cut off by the sound of one of the doors in the main hall slamming shut and a torrent of shouting.

“What in the name of the Nine is that?” the housecarl muttered.

Ulfric sighed irritably, but then stiffened in alarm. In the midst of the cacophony of heightened voices, he’d heard a single word: _Dragonborn._

Instantly, he turned away from the table and stalked out into the throne room with his jaw set, the general following behind him with one hand on his battleaxe. What they saw was nothing short of chaos.

Three Windhelm guards struggled to restrain a shrieking figure in tattered crimson robes with a single yellow-scaled arm and a bleached, alien mask of bone. The figure thrashed and writhed in their grip, pointing a claw-like finger at a slumped, slight figure in a black robe who was being supported by another guard.

 _Kajsa._ Eyes hardening, the jarl strode towards the crowd, pushing his way through some more guards who had gathered around with their weapons at the ready in case of trouble. “What is going on here?” he boomed.

The guards froze, glancing over at him almost nervously. Kajsa raised her head wearily, and then let it fall again; the guard that had been keeping her on her feet lowered her onto one of the benches by the long tables.

One of the guards standing by stepped forward to answer him. “A disturbance in the courtyard, my jarl. This woman here –” he gestured towards the bent-over Dragonborn “– was attacked by two of these – these _things_ here.” He jerked his head at the sinister, now-still figure being held in place by the other guards. “Thanks to their would-be victim, one of them’s being taken to the Hall of the Dead right now, but we captured the other one alive.”

Ulfric’s eyes lingered on the eerie attacker for a moment, and then gave a sharp nod to the guard. “Lock it in the prison.”

“Yes, my jarl.” Bowing his head briefly, the guard made a motion to his comrades.

“Lies! Lies and deceit!” The assailant’s raspy, grating voice gave everyone pause; the jarl felt the blood in his veins running cold. “Your lies fall on deaf ears, Deceiver! The _true_ Dragonborn comes... and you are but his shadow.”

With a start, Ulfric realized that – that whatever _this_ was – it was speaking to Kajsa. Turning his head, he saw her watching it with dark, emotionless eyes.

Her attacker seemed encouraged by her silence. “Your false reign will end, and your blood will flow in Miraak’s name! You shall not stand in the way of the _true_ Dragonborn’s return! Our lord comes soon, and we shall offer him your heart!”

“That’s enough,” the guard said sharply. “Take it away. _Now._ ”

“So then the lie _has_ taken root in the hearts of men,” the assailant hissed, now making no move to struggle as the other guards dragged him towards the doorway leading to the prison. “We shall expose to them the falseness in their hearts by tearing out yours, Deceiver!” Its voice rose to a fanatical scream once again. “You cannot escape Miraak’s sight! You cannot escape the Dragonborn’s justice! Your soul belongs to him, and you will be an offering to the Master –!”

The rest of its words were cut off by the slamming of the door behind it and the guards. The throne room fell silent once again as the guards slowly dispersed and returned to their posts: two by the door, and others vanishing outside into the courtyard once again.

The jarl finally turned to Kajsa, scrutinizing her. She was leaning over her knees with her elbows propping her up, staring at the door where the guards and her attacker had gone through. She didn’t seem hurt, but her shoulders rose and fell with the exertion of every breath she took.

“Kajsa.”

Her eyes snapped to him, losing some of their harshness – but still containing all of their wariness.

“Are you injured?” he asked.

She shook her head instantly. “Just tired. A little shaken. They seemed to come out of nowhere.” She touched Mehrunes’ Razor, resting in its sheath on her hip; he’d returned it to her earlier this morning after she’d asked about it. “I’m lucky I had this. One well-placed stab, and one of them went down immediately.”

 _It is a good thing the guards were around, as well... she could have been seriously hurt had she been alone..._ Ulfric extended a hand, helping her to her feet. “Good. I am glad to hear it.”

Behind them, Galmar cleared his throat indelicately.

The jarl glanced at his housecarl, frowning. “Galmar, go with the other guards. See what you can get out of – out of whatever that _thing_ was. I would be very interested to know what they were doing in Windhelm.”

“And our strategy talk?” the housecarl prompted.

“To be continued tomorrow.” Placing one hand on the small of the Dragonborn’s back, Ulfric steered her past the glowering general, giving Galmar a pointed look as he passed. “Perhaps we can discuss more... _issues_ then.”

Leaving his housecarl behind, the jarl guided Kajsa down the hallway and into the war room, up the stairs and through the small, dark corridors until they finally reached the door at the end. Opening it, he stood aside to allow her by first, and then followed her inside his chambers, closing the door behind them both.

As soon as he heard the _thunk_ of the door closing, Ulfric turned around, his face grave. “Tell me what happened.”

She seated herself on the dais that held his bed, leaning over her knees like she had been before. “I was walking to the Palace of the Kings, and they stopped me in the courtyard. One of them asked me if I was the one they called ‘Dragonborn,’ and I said I didn’t know what they were talking about. They said I was lying, and they attacked.”

“And then you killed one of them,” the jarl finished.

“Both of them were casting Destruction spells, and that’s what caused the guards to step in.” She laughed humorlessly. “For once in my life, I’m grateful for the Windhelm guards.”

Ulfric nearly smiled, but sobered. “Do you know who or what they were?”

The Dragonborn shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, but I do know this: they’re assassins of some kind.” She held out a crumpled note, once clenched in her fist, towards him. “I found this on the body of the one I killed. It’s a contract.”

Taking it and smoothing it out, the jarl scanned the lines:

>   _Board the vessel_ Northern Maiden _docked at Raven Rock. Take it to Windhelm and then begin your search. Kill the False Dragonborn known as Kajsa Red-Blade before she reaches Solstheim._
> 
> _Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased._

_Miraak..._ Ulfric remembered the name from the assassin’s ravings. “Do you know who this ‘Miraak’ is?”

Kajsa shook her head. “Not a damn clue. The name sounds like it comes from the dragon language, but I can’t be sure.” She snorted. “All I know is that he – or she – is yet another person who wants to kill me. I’m not sure about what Solstheim is, though.”

“I am not surprised you have never heard of it; not many have,” the jarl remarked. “It is an island that lies north of Tamriel, in the Sea of Ghosts. It is a territory of Morrowind now, but from what I understand, it was fairly isolated from the continent before that. The sole colony, Raven Rock, was founded by the East Empire Trading Company as a trade stop, and I understand there is a mine there, but it is unremarkable besides that.”

The Dragonborn considered this information, lips pursed. Then, she sighed. “Well, I suppose there’s only one thing for me to do. I need to find the _Northern Maiden_ , go to Solstheim, and get some answers.”

“You cannot do that. Not now.”

Kajsa frowned in confusion for a moment, and then she rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes: I’ll honor my oath and wait until Solitude’s been taken before I leave again. Happy?”

“You know what I meant,” Ulfric growled. “You are in no condition to do either of those things: going to war _or_ going to Solstheim.”

“Oh, really?” Her eyes flashed challengingly. “I’ve been wounded plenty of times, and I’ve nearly been killed more times than I can count. Do you honestly think that any of this would slow me down?”

The jarl rubbed his temples in exasperation. _By Talos, she’s even worse than Galmar!_ “I am not doubting your competency – just your readiness. It would be wiser for you to stay in Windhelm and recover for a little while. Train a bit. Get your strength back _before_ going out to fight.”

The Dragonborn laughed harshly. “You’re making me sound like a clumsy child who’s fallen and scraped their knee. I’ll be fine.”

Ulfric stared at her, aghast. “Dragonborn –” he began angrily, and then stopped, continuing in a lower tone of forced patience. “Kajsa, I have a right to be concerned about you.” His voice softened further. “I know what you have gone through, and I know that you have not survived unscathed. You are nowhere near as strong as you used to be and –”

Kajsa looked up at him from under her lashes, her gaze accusing and hurt. “Are you calling me weak?” she asked dangerously.

“No,” the jarl said firmly. “All I am saying is that you are... vulnerable.”

The Dragonborn slumped, her shoulders sinking, and she turned her head away. “You don’t have to lie for my benefit,” she said hoarsely. “I know I’m weak.”

“Only in body,” Ulfric rejoined, sitting down next to her and lifting up her jaw with one hand in order to meet her eyes. “Not in mind or heart.”

She shook her head. “Hardly. I – I’m not – I don’t feel like myself – or at least,” she amended bitterly, pushing his hand away, “who I was before.”

“I have known that feeling,” the jarl said quietly. _Being in war, being imprisoned, being tortured... the change brought about by those is deep and irreparable._

“I’ve experienced it more times than I care for.” Kajsa gazed at him for a moment. Then: “You took the dossier. The one I had in Hjerim.”

Ulfric swallowed, remembering the disbelief and hurt of reading it so many times. “Yes.”

The Dragonborn exhaled, her lips tightening in pain. “So you know after all. About...” Her voice faltered. “What happened to me... before...”

The jarl nodded, sparing her any more words. “Is that why you wished to see me?”

She sighed. “Karliah wanted me to talk to someone – to you. She said I couldn’t continue keeping it inside of me –” She stopped, blinking away the tears gathering in her eyes. “I didn’t want to... but maybe it’ll be easier with you knowing half the story.”

Ulfric reached over and took her hand: cold and thin, almost fragile. “Take all the time you need. We have all night.”

Kajsa was silent for a moment, her face like stone. Then she turned to him, eyes dark and frightened. “Promise me that – that you will not speak until the very end. Do not judge me until I am done.”

“I swear it by the might of Talos.”

The Dragonborn stayed motionless, a tear tracing its way down her scarred cheek. Rubbing it away, she finally began speaking in a slow, hoarse whisper:

“There’s only one place to really start this story from: from the beginning of the end. Of the end of my days as a mercenary, of the end of my career as a thief – of the end of everything I held dear.

“The year was 4E 201, and the place was Cyrodiil...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this is the worst cliffhanger I've probably ever done... but there's another chapter coming out tomorrow, so don't worry! (And please don't hate me. :P)
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	48. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["No Light, No Light," Florence + The Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGH-4jQZRcc)

“The year was 4E 201 and the place was Cyrodiil. I hadn’t set foot in Skyrim for over six years, but even _I_ knew that civil war had broken out there. Everyone in the Imperial City did, from the nobles in their gardens to the merchants in their shops to the beggars on the street, and it was a frequent topic of conversation everywhere I went. I was just one of the few to ignore it entirely.

“Unlike the Legion, what happened in Skyrim didn’t concern me. I had left that land behind me years ago, and I was operating in Cyrodiil now, along with the other mercenaries in the band that I’d attached myself to: the Lionhearts.

“Many different sellswords passed in and out of our little group, but there were always four of us at the very core, including myself. There was our leader, an Orc named Kugrash gro-Rul: easy-going on the whole, but absolutely terrifying when he went into battle. There was a Bosmer, Faelwen: sarcastic and prickly, but there was no better archer than she. And... there was a Redguard swordsman. Tariq.” She swallowed hard.

“Life was simple with them. We traveled from town to town, city to city, seeking news and jobs. We did the job and we got paid and then we started all over. Sometimes, it was harder to do that, and other times, it was easier. It was just better to resign myself to the cycle, because that was just the way it all went eventually.

“But after a few years, I started to become bored. There was no real thrill, no rush to be gained from simple mercenary work – not like thieving. So I became a thief again, stealing for the sake of stealing, slipping into the shadows of manors and shops for the way it made my heart race with pure excitement and anticipation. Eventually, I made contact with the Guild branch in Cyrodiil, and I began making a nice profit on the side from picking up jobs with them.

“It was good while it lasted. But then I got caught: not by any town guard, but by the person that I loved and respected most. And that hurt much more.” Her lips tightened in pain. “Tariq swore that he would not breathe a word to Kugrash or Faelwen, but in return, I had to promise to give up my life as a thief. And because I – I didn’t want to lose _any_ of them, I accepted.

“It was only a few months after that when the civil war broke out. We were drinking away the coin from our last job in some tavern in Bruma when we heard the news from some soldiers that were passing through on the way to the border.

“After they’d gone their way, Kugrash just laughed with that great booming laugh of his and said, ‘Well, I suppose we won’t be picking up any jobs in Skyrim for a while, now, will we?’”

“‘Not unless we want to get ourselves killed in some stupid war of succession,’ Faelwen added dryly. ‘Both sides will probably kill us on sight: the Stormcloaks for not being Nords, and the Imperials for being potential traitors.’ At the time, I was of a mind with her, and I said as much.

“Finally, Tariq spoke up after remaining silent for the whole time. ‘That is your decision. But I believe that I will go to Skyrim and fight.’

“‘Fight for which side?’ Faelwen asked incredulously.

“‘For the Stormcloaks,’ he replied.

“We were confused, and we did not understand why he would do this. As we considered him to be the most rational and steady of us all, we asked him why he would even consider this.

“‘Do you know nothing of history?’ Tariq demanded. ‘The Empire has done nothing for Hammerfell. It gave away our lands to the Aldmeri Dominion, and when we defied the White-Gold Concordat, it abandoned us. We gained our freedom, yes, but by the time the Dominion withdrew from Hammerfell, we had won it with our blood.

“Talos is not even _our_ god, but that of the Nords – and yet, we still fought for our rights. These ‘Stormcloaks’ have an even greater reason than my people did to stand up against the Empire. If they want to win against the Empire and then, presumably, take the fight to the Dominion, they need all the support they can get. And I intend to lend my sword to their cause.’

“We were all quiet and still after his speech, not entirely sure what to say to him. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Kugrash said very slowly, ‘You won’t be going alone, boy. I’ll come with you. I have no love for the Emperor or the Thalmor, and the latter in particular would like nothing better than to wipe the Orsimer off the face of Tamriel.’

“‘I’ll come, too,’ Faelwen offered wryly. “‘Neither of you will last long without me watching your backs.’

“Smiling, Tariq turned to me. ‘And what about you, Katarina? Will you accompany us to Skyrim as well?’

“I did not wish to. I had no desire to have my friends or myself become casualties of war, and what’s more, I didn’t want to return to Skyrim. Every since my mother and father passed, there was nothing left there for me except memories I didn’t want.” She sighed. “But I cared for them all, so I held my tongue and I nodded anyway.

“During the next few days or so, we started preparing for our journey: buying supplies, mapping our route, keeping tabs on news from there. Our spirits seemed to rise as the days wore on; it had been a long time since we left Cyrodiil, let alone gone to Skyrim. I was born and raised there, yet I could barely remember what the land looked like, what the air felt like in my lungs, how cold and harsh it all was.

“One night, Faelwen met us in that same tavern with grim news. She’d overheard that the Legion was controlling all routes in and out of Cyrodiil – including the Pale Pass, the easiest route to enter Skyrim from the South. She said that it appeared as though the Empire was worried about the large Nord population in Bruma leaving to go fight for the Stormcloaks, but one thing was clear: there was no way we could leave the country legally.

“I contacted an old friend of mine in the Cyrodilic Thieves Guild: Appius Glaucia, one of the best infiltrators I’ve ever known and a master at toying with the law and those who enforced it. Explaining the situation, I asked him if there was a way that he could get us past the guards at the border. He said that he could do that – forging papers for us and giving us new identities that would get us through, no questions asked – but only if I promised to do something for him in return.

“‘A client of mine wishes for us to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy in the Imperial City and steal some documents for them,’ he said. ‘I’ll be taking care of this personally, along with three other of my comrades, but I want you to come along. When it comes to a job this risky, I’ll need all the skill and talent I can get.”

She looked down at her hands, her expression melancholy. “I said that I’d do it, and just like that, I’d broke the only promise that really mattered to me. I betrayed Tariq’s confidence, and I told myself that it would be for the greater good. _As long as I got us the papers,_ I thought, _he would never have to know of what I’d done to procure them._

“It was easy enough to leave Bruma for the Imperial City under the pretext that I was picking up more supplies that we’d need for the journey. There, I met up with Appius and his associates: Deirdre, Hapriel, and Silm-Kei, all of them thieves that I’d worked with in the past. Holed up in a hidden room in a sleazy little tavern on the Waterfront, we slowly but surely figured out a plan of attack.

“It was a moonless Sun’s Height evening when we finally left to carry out the job. We split up, with Deirdre and Silm-Kei scaling the back wall, Appius and me entering through the side, and Hapriel scouting ahead to keep an eye on our escape route. We went unseen by the guards and managed to slip inside without a hitch.

“Even though we had spent hours and hours, if not a day or two, planning out our route and escape, there was still a high degree of uncertainty. Our client hadn’t provided us with any blueprints to the Imperial City Embassy, so Silm-Kei was forced to procure us some, and we weren’t exactly sure that they were reliable. Fortunately, they seemed to hold true for us, and Appius and I made it to the archives in a relatively timely manner.

“After hurriedly combing through everything there, we finally found what we were looking for – more blueprints and some folios and documents. We were just about to retrace our steps and escape when we heard a voice ringing out from the doorway:

“‘To the thieves who have infiltrated the Embassy Archives, we know you are in here. Your comrades are dead, and you have no hope of escaping. Surrender now, and the Aldmeri Dominion will be merciful.’” Her upper lip curled in disgust, but her eyes were dark with remembered fear.

“I was afraid, more scared than I had ever been in my entire life. I’d heard about the supposed ‘mercy’ of the Thalmor, and I had no intention of giving myself up to them.

“There was a reason that Appius was leading the mission: he could keep his cool if something as catastrophic as this happened. As soon as we heard the ultimatum, I was nearly frozen with fright. But he immediately handed over all of the documents he’d been carrying and gave me directions about what to do with them, as well as where I could find the forged papers I needed.

“‘By the Eight, Katarina: _escape_ ,’ he whispered. ‘No one deserves an end like this, especially not when they’re about to restart their life.’” A tear coursed down her cheek and she rubbed it away. “And just like that, he walked away and – and he gave himself up to them to – to buy me some time... and I escaped.

“But it was only a matter of time before the Thalmor realized that there was more than one thief left alive. Within moments of climbing out a window with the papers in my satchel and running for my life, I found myself being pursued through the alleyways by a lone Justiciar, the one who had captured Appius and killed the others. I ended up hiding in the shadows – and then when he was near, I leaped out and stabbed him, leaving him for dead in a pile of trash and making my escape back to the safe house.

“My satisfaction was short-lived. Come morning, the Thalmor were knocking on every door in the Imperial City, ransacking homes and shops and showing a sketch of me to anyone they met. I fled as quickly as I could to Bravil, leaving the documents from the Embassy at the dead drop that Appius had told me of and then retrieving the forged papers before returning to Bruma. By then, everyone else had readied themselves; they were waiting for me to return.

“Kugrash and Faelwen didn’t question me when I gave them their new identities and explained the plan to them. Tariq suspected, and he asked later where I’d gotten them. I told him the truth – partially, at least. I confessed that I’d gone to see Appius and that he was the one who had made them, but in this version of the story, I’d paid him all of the septims I’d had on me.

“After mildly chiding me for doing such a thing, Tariq reluctantly accepted his papers. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘sometimes the ends justify the means. I can only hope that this is one of those times.’ And I agreed with him whole-heartedly.

“We left Bruma shortly after I arrived and headed North, disguised as farmers; we hid all of our weapons and armor under a cart of hay. Once we reached the Pale Pass, the guards at the border stopped us and asked for our identification, but thankfully, they didn’t search us – they just waved us on through.

“The Pale Pass was a nightmare to navigate: slippery ice and falling boulders by day and torrents of snow and fierce winds by night. Once our horse ended up as a frost troll’s lunch, we abandoned the cart and just carried everything, which slowed us down immensely. The only relief was that we’d brought enough food and had dressed warmly enough for the journey; if we hadn’t, we would have been dead long before reaching Skyrim.

“Occasionally, we talked and planned about once we would do once we arrived. We agreed that we would take the road east towards Riften, and we also agreed that it was the city where we should meet up if we got separated for whatever reason. But no matter what, once we were all together, we’d head to Windhelm then and take our oaths together. As soldiers in the Stormcloak Army, we’d likely be separated after our journey – so we wanted to spend as much time together as we could before that happened.

“At long last, we reached the end of the pass and we took our first steps back into Skyrim under the light of the moons. We were so glad to be alive and to have made it, and we all let our guard down, just talking and laughing and singing as we walked down the road – and then – then we were ambushed. By Thalmor.” Her shoulders stiffened and she drew her arms around her. “That was when I realized that we’d been played. The guards had deliberately let us go past, and we’d walked right into a trap.

“We were outnumbered and unprepared. The only thing we could do was run. So we scattered in all different directions and vanished, almost before the Thalmor even knew what was going on. Then... the chase began.

“I left the road and sprinted into the woods, throwing off anything that could have weighed me down and leaving it behind me. After what seemed like an eternity of running, I thought that I had thrown them off my trail – and then I heard it. His – _his_ voice.” She shivered unbidden. “It was _him_ : the Justiciar from the Embassy, the one I thought I’d killed. But almost before I could react, before I could hide or fight or _anything_ , he caught up. Hit me with a bolt of Chain Lightning and knocked me down. I hit my head and I blacked out.”

Kajsa stopped for a moment, sucking in a shaky, rattling breath. Unsure of what was to come, Ulfric waited for her to continue in silence. Finally, after a long pause, she spoke again, her voice low and hoarse:

“When I woke up, I was in a small, dark, dirty cell: chained to the wall, my weapons gone and clad in only my shirt and my leggings, unable to fully grasp what was going on. It was only when my clouded, disoriented mind realized where the dried blood on my forehead was from that I remembered everything that had happened... and then _he_ came in.”

“Orthorien,” the jarl murmured angrily, briefly forgetting his promise to stay quiet.

The Dragonborn nodded slowly. “He gloated over me, taunting me for my lack of caution and my audacity and my _stupidity_ – daring to think that I could cheat the Dominion, that I could steal out from under their very nose and get away with it. He laughed in my face, condemning me for my gall in trying to kill him.

“‘I cannot be put down so easily as some common _human_ ,’ he whispered to me before he slipped back into the shadows of the prison, ‘for I never leave something unfinished once I have started it. And you, dearest Katarina, have begun something that I must end. You have dared to scar me, a superiorly bred Mer – and I will return that favor in kind. You will pay for what you have done with your blood... and I will enjoy hearing you scream and plead for the end.’” Her fingers wound around each other, twisting and wringing tightly: her only outward sign of distress. “And then the nightmare began.

“Day after day, he tortured me in – in all manner of ways. Whipping me, burning me, cutting me... all the while drugging me so I couldn’t fight back, all the while asking the same questions over and over in that poisonous voice of his, all the while playing the same cruel mind games –” She broke off, her voice cracking with emotion. “He was right. I _did_ want to die... it would have been a mercy compared to what he did to me –” Kajsa covered her face with her hands, shoulders collapsing and shaking as her body shook with barely restrained sobs.

 _“Eventually broken through torture and deemed ‘beyond recovery’”..._ The words from the dossier echoed in Ulfric’s mind, and he felt his mouth go dry with dread. _There was something more than that – something more that that_ bastard _did..._

“What changed?” he asked quietly, suddenly. “You are here tonight to tell me this; something else must have happened.”

The Dragonborn lifted her head, her eyes red and raw with stinging tears. For a moment, the jarl thought she was going to lash out at him for asking such a question, but instead, she found her voice again. The next words she spoke were choked and hoarse.

“One day, I woke up and – and someone I never thought I’d see again – he was _there_ , kneeling in front of me. It took me a moment to realize who he was, if it was even real. But it _was_ really him. _Tariq._ ” She bit her lower lip, closing her eyes briefly. “I cried so hard... I was overjoyed to see him, but I knew that as long as he remained here, his life was in danger. I warned him that he needed to leave before he was caught.

“‘You are mistaken, my lioness,’ he said gently. Briefly, he explained that he’d been trying to find me ever since the Lionhearts were ambushed. He’d finally tracked me to an Imperial-controlled military fort, and had relinquished his weapons in order to be allowed inside the prison. Apparently, Orthorien himself had welcomed him.

“‘The Justiciar knows I am here; he was the one who convinced the Legate to let me through. He told me that you _were_ , in fact, being imprisoned here... and why.’ He looked at me, disbelief in his eyes. ‘Is it true what he said, Katarina? _Did_ you rob the Imperial City Embassy?’

“Instantly, I realized that it was another trap. _He_ was using Tariq to get to me, to finally make me confess. It dawned on me then that Tariq was no more free than I was. As soon as he’d stepped inside the walls, he was Orthorien’s prisoner, same as me – and he could fall victim to what I’d been subjected to.

“Before I could even open my mouth, _he_ came in with some Thalmor soldiers at his back.” She took another unsteady breath. “The guards seized Tariq, hauling him away from me and beating him violently. Orthorien merely watched, and when his soldiers were done, he addressed Tariq as he lay bleeding on the floor:

“‘I had hoped that you would have gotten your stubborn _friend_ to talk, but it would seem that your chance appearance was not the breakthrough I had hoped for. But there is still one more use I have for you.’ Then he turned to me with a gleam in his eyes that made my blood run cold. ‘This will be the last time that I question you, Katarina. Let us see if your responses differ under your lover’s scrutiny.’ And – and then he – he –” Kajsa’s voice faltered and died, and she lowered her eyes back towards her fretful, tangled hands in her lap.

“He kissed me.” Her words came out stilted, in a humiliated whisper that Ulfric could barely hear. “He kissed me – and – and he _touched_ me – and the whole time, he – he kept whispering in my ear – about what _he_ – what he was going to do to me if I didn’t speak. And – and _Tariq_ –” She squeezed her eyes shut, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks once more. “The guards restrained him – and – and they forced him to – to watch _him_ do this to me –”

Ulfric silently laid a hand on her trembling shoulder. She tensed at first, but then let her shoulders slump downwards again without any resistance.

The jarl opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. _No. I cannot ask her this._ Shaking his head, he steeled his resolve. _But I must. I need to know if –_

“Did he –?”

Opening her eyes again, the Dragonborn gave him a sidelong glance, nearly hidden by her hair falling over her face. But it was enough for him to see the dead, defeated look in her eyes.

“No,” she whispered bitterly. “ _He_ got what he wanted before _that_ could happen. I _broke._ I told him everything he wanted to know –” She turned her head away again, swallowing in disgrace.

“Kajsa,” Ulfric said softly, breaking the silence.

She did not answer.

The jarl sighed quietly. _I should not have asked her._ “I am sorry.”

“For _what_?” she snapped with a sob in her throat, whipping her head back around. “It wasn’t your fault that this happened to me. It was _mine._

“It was _my_ _decision_ to go with the Lionhearts to Skyrim. It was _my decision_ to break into the Embassy with Appius and the others. And it was _my decision_ to save myself by confessing everything to _him!”_

“You forget that I know some of what you have gone through,” Ulfric reminded darkly. “I know what it means to feel the shame of a confession got from torture. I know what it means to bear perceived faults and blame. Those may have been your decisions, Kajsa, but that does not mean that everything was your fault.” The hand on his shoulder traveled to her damp cheek, cupping it gently. “You and I both have our reasons for what we did, however petty they may seem.”

“But the ends _don’t_ always justify the means,” the Dragonborn whispered, her voice distraught. “I confessed because I thought that that would truly be the end of it all. I confessed because I wanted to hang onto what little pride I had left, to keep one of the only things I had that _he_ hadn’t taken away from me yet.I confessed because I thought it would save myself and Tariq. But – but I was wrong.” She looked away again, pushing his hand away from her.

“ _He_ killed Tariq. Stabbed him with one of my own daggers, one of the ones he’d confiscated from me.” She shook with contained sobs. “The last way Tariq ever looked at me was – was with – _disgust. Betrayal._ He’d had faith in me that – that I would keep my promise – and I let him down. _I_ killed him, as surely as if I had held the dagger myself.

“And then...” She raised a hand to her cheek, the outline of the jagged scars there glowing in the candlelight. “ _He_ cut these into my skin with the very same dagger.” Kajsa finally looked back at him, her face like stone. “And before I blacked out, before I woke up on the cart to Helgen... _he_ looked into my eyes and he said this to me:

“‘Did you honestly think that _I,_ a superiorly bred Mer, would ever dream of lying with a filthy-blooded human like _you_ – even if the Dominion demanded it of me?’” She finally broke down, once again covering her face with her hands as she wept. “I – I –” Her voice was lost in her gasping sobs.

Without a word, Ulfric wrapped his arms around her, pulling her shaking body near to him. She didn’t resist, tangling her hands in the folds of his robe and burying her face in his chest, tears soaking his fur collar. Closing his eyes and running his fingers through her hair, the other hand on her waist, the jarl held her there with all of the strength he could muster, not wanting to let her go.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he felt the Dragonborn shift her head to the side. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and hoarse. “Please... do not breathe a word of this. I – I’ve never told _anyone_ –”

Ulfric nodded, pressing his lips to the top of her head. _Talos, she has strength. To carry this weight on her shoulders for so long..._

Kajsa went silent again. Then: “There’s more.” Pushing back against him and freeing herself from his arms, she stood up.

The jarl watched her as she walked away from the bed, stopping before the fireplace with her back turned to him. The glow of the firelight outlined her form in the dim room, and for a moment, he was uncomfortably reminded of his old nightmare, of the first time he saw her scars.

_What more am I about to see?_

“I didn’t join the Stormcloaks for any particularly noble reason – for freedom, for Talos, for any of that.” Her voice was still low, as if she were speaking to herself. “I joined because of what happened to Kugrash and Faelwen and Tariq. I joined because of _him_. The Empire might not have been able to resist the Dominion, but the Stormcloaks... I still thought they had a chance against them.” She paused. “I – I thought _you_ might give me my chance.”

Ulfric frowned. _A chance at what?_

“I – _had_ a plan to carry out my revenge.” The Dragonborn turned around, her tears drying on her cheeks and her eyes dark. “I would join the Stormcloaks, rise in their ranks. Win your battles, win your favor. Fall as much into your debt as you would mine. And then, once the war was over and if I still lived...” Her voice trailed off. “Then I would ask for the debt to be repaid.”

“What are you saying?” He rose, but did not approach her.

“Don’t you see?” Her face was agonized, almost angry, but he did not know if it was for him. “My plan was to _use_ you. _That_ was how I would get my revenge on _him_ – with my power, _and_ with yours.”

The jarl stared at her in disbelief and betrayal. _I entrusted her with the whole of my vision, the heart of my cause – and_ this _is what she does with them?_ “Why are you telling me this, then?” he growled. “Is it not important for your _plot_ that I remain unaware of it?”

“Because that plan is dead.” Her gaze did not falter, but her voice shook. “It died the moment Karliah told me about Vlindrel Hall – about _his_ return to Skyrim. I _had_ to change it... so that what happened to the Lionhearts would not happen to anyone else.”

Her last words stayed his fury, bringing realization with it. “So you chose to keep everything to yourself,” he said slowly. “You chose to face him alone.”

Kajsa nodded. “I didn’t know if I could do it,” she whispered. “But if any more people that I cared about died for no other reason than my _thoughtlessness_ –” She swallowed. “That would be more unbearable than whatever _he_ could do to me.”

Ulfric exhaled, rubbing his temples. _So much of her behavior makes more sense now. Except..._ “But you still did not tell me, even when I asked.”

The ends of her lips quirked up in a dry, humorless smile. “You have the fate of Skyrim resting on your shoulders. That’s a good deal more important than the revenge of one woman.”

“Even a woman as powerful as the Dragonborn?” he asked wryly, crossing the floor to her.

She shrugged, seemingly uncaring, but her eyes were hollow. “It’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve sacrificed what I want in the face of fate.”

The jarl rested his hands on her shoulders, meeting her gaze. “At this hour in the war, we share the fate of Skyrim. Do not assume that I cannot shoulder part of your own fate as well.”

The Dragonborn stared at him for a moment, her expression pained. “Am I someone you truly want in your life?” she asked, her voice quiet. “After what I just told you... if you do not think less of me for what I’ve done, you have more forgiveness in you than I gave you credit for.”

Ulfric almost smiled. “Not so much forgiveness as understanding.” He brought one hand up to the scars on her cheek, tracing them with the tips of his fingers. “You and I... I have always thought that we are very much alike.”

“How so?” she asked darkly.

“Is it not apparent?” he rejoined. “We are both powerful in our own right. We both have ambition, aspirations for higher things. We both have... independent minds.”

“We’re stubborn, you mean.”

The jarl laughed quietly. “Some might call it that, yes.” His fingers slid back, brushing a loose lock of her hair behind her ear; it was longer than he’d ever seen it before, but not at all unattractive. “And, against all odds, despite our quarrels, we keep circling back to one another, as if the gods themselves wish for us to be together.” He paused. “Unless I have greatly mistaken your feelings towards me.”

Kajsa lowered her eyes in response.

“Have I?” he asked again. _Do not lie to me. Not now._

She shook her head. “I would not know,” she finally said. “I – I often mistake _my_ feelings, myself.”

“What for?” He leaned closer, his lips inches from her forehead.

The Dragonborn looked up at him from under her lashes, but her gaze was steely. “I only ever truly hated you once, you know,” she said simply. “That night when you bade me bring your axe to Balgruuf –”

“You had reason for it.” _As angry as I was, she had every right to match my wrath._

“I thought I would desert after that. Betray another oath, turn traitor again.” She sighed. “But after Whiterun, when I returned to Windhelm... there was something in your earnestness – or desperation – to win me back that made me _believe_.”

“Believe in what, exactly?” He inclined his head, his hand moving around her head to the nape of her neck.

Kajsa raised her head up fully now, tilting it back to look him in the eye. “That there could be something more on our minds than manipulation and end games. That maybe, with time... there could be something more between us.”

Ulfric smiled slightly. “There is.” He kissed her, closing the distance between them.

She wound her arms up over his and around his shoulders, and he felt her heart beating against his chest as she ran her fingers through his hair, anchoring herself to him. His other hand ran down her torso, her waist, her hip, then underneath her thigh to lift her leg up and wrap it around him. The uneven balance of weight upset them both, and they staggered away from the hearth and fell back onto his bed.

The Dragonborn climbed up over his lap as he righted himself, raising herself up on her knees to match his height as she kissed him again, her lips moving over his cheek. Both of his hands went to her waist as he kissed down her throat, along the pronounced line of her collarbone, relishing her warmth against him. _Gods... I could lose myself in her._

After what seemed like an eternity, Kajsa slowly pulled away, her eyes softening with regret. “I don’t want to say good-night,” she confessed.

“Then do not,” he said, his voice deepening with want. “Stay with me tonight.”

Instantly, he felt her tense under his touch, and he withdrew his hands, knowing that he’d said the wrong thing. _You have a mind, Ulfric,_ he admonished himself. _Show some sympathy and restraint; think with_ that _instead._

The Dragonborn shook her head. “I – I don’t think I’d be able to,” she stammered. “It’s... it’s been a while, and – and I’m not sure if I – if I –”

“Of course,” he agreed hastily, drawing away from her slowly, feeling the chill of the room against him again. “We both need some time – you, in particular – to think about these things.”

She stood up, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. Then: “Good night, Ulfric. And – and thank you. For everything.” With that, she turned away.

It took all of his control to _not_ tug her back to him as the jarl watched her slowly walk to the door, open it, and then leave with only a single glance back. As soon as the door closed behind her, he slumped back, rubbing his forehead with one hand, trying to banish the storm of emotions raging inside him.

For once in his life, he was completely unsure of what to think, what to do, what to say. _Did I do the right thing? Was it wise to leave her be?_

He looked over his bed, and then tore his gaze from it, ashamed of himself. _Dammit, Ulfric... you know that would not have been wise – especially not right now. She_ does _need space, some time to herself. She has not yet healed from her ordeals... and tonight only proved that._

His eyes wandered towards the embers of the dying fire in the hearth. _She has already shared something of her pain with me, maybe a bit unwillingly,_ he thought. _But she will have to make the decision to bare her other scars to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Discussions of torture and attempted/threatened sexual assault
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	49. Readiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW you're so obsessed with making sure that everything in the rewrite meets your standards that you wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and edit chapters on your smartphone...

The giant bronze doors closing behind her with a _bang_ , Kajsa pushed back the hood of her fur-lined robe from her face and brushed the coating of snow off her shoulders; Windhelm had been beset by yet another snowfall, this one lasting for much of the day. Shrugging off her robe entirely and draping it over one arm, she strode towards the end of the throne room of the Palace of the Kings.

 _I hope I’m not_ too _late... I inadvertently put off Galmar’s directive until the last possible moment._ She smiled to herself, but upon hearing voices within the war room, she paused at the entrance to the hallway to listen.

“Well, what is your assessment of the situation, Galmar?” Ulfric’s deep voice rumbled. “Are we yet ready?”

“Perhaps. But I don’t think it’s time to close in on Haafingar just yet.”

A pause. “And why not? We have the men and we have the resources. Dengeir’s catapults are at the ready, Skald’s fleet is sailing to Solitude as we speak, and half the army has amassed in our northern camps. Tell me what the issue is.”

“It’s a question of morale,” Galmar growled, “as you well know.”

“If this is about Kajsa _again_ –” the jarl warned.

 _“Again”?_ The Dragonborn frowned, stepping away from the entrance, where she could be easily seen. _What have they been discussing about me – behind my back, no less? And what exactly has Ulfric been saying?_ She swallowed, but continued to concentrate on the conversation.

“It is, and you’re going to listen to me, gods dammit!” The sound of a fist slamming down on wood.

A sigh. “I am listening.” Ulfric’s tone sounded impatient and decidedly dangerous.

“You’re an idiot for thinking that Red-Blade can be held against her will. You’ve already tried that – oh, I don’t know _how_ many times. The point is, if she wants to fight, she’s going to fight, regardless of what you say. The woman’s bloodthirsty, and I have a feeling she’d much rather be slicing her way through some Imperials than staying in Windhelm and being coddled by you.”

“You forget that I will be joining you for Solitude,” the jarl pointed out. “I intend to fight this last battle, Galmar. I always have.”

Kajsa’s eyebrows shot up. _Since when was_ that _happening?_

“Then she’ll be coming along, anyway,” the housecarl retorted. “So why worry about it?”

“You know why. She is not ready for combat.”

“Have you not seen her these past few days?” the general demanded. “Since the day after we returned, she’s been training out in the courtyard with the other soldiers – and she’s been showing them all up.” A contemptuous snort. “‘Not ready for combat,’ my arse! If she can kick the teeth of a garrison in, she definitely can take on the Legion.”

The Dragonborn smiled again. Despite the fact that some of her physical wounds had yet to heal – she’d only just removed the bandages from the whip scars this morning and it still felt so strange to not feel them restricting her movements as she went about her business – and that she hadn’t done any serious, formal physical training in years, slipping back into the repetitive, tiring routines of drills and running and exercises and maneuvers was easier than expected. To her pleased surprise, she found that she could still wield the Ebony Blade and her Nightingale’s bow (both returned after she’d written to Karliah and asked her to retrieve them from Fort Greenwall for her) with minimal difficulty. She was by no means back to her usual level of fitness, but if she’d elicited words of praise from _Galmar_ , of all people, then her training was certainly paying off.

“I have not noticed.”

Her smile faded, and she snorted disdainfully. _Of course he hasn’t._

It had been almost two weeks since her confessions to Ulfric about her past. Two weeks since he’d suggested – and none too subtly, either – that she sleep with him. Two weeks since she’d seen or spoken to him. She had just been keeping her distance, biding her time, waiting for herself to gather some courage and face him again.

When his courier had approached her while in the training yard and handed her the folded piece of parchment, she’d thought it a letter from him... or at least, she had until she opened it and discovered it was a summons from Galmar. She’d hoped, for however brief a moment, that it _was_ from him; she had no idea what to expect from him, but she wanted him to say _something._

_Something that shows... something that shows that he – that he –_

Her thoughts were cut off by Galmar’s voice, somewhat less harsh than she was accustomed to hearing it. “And have you told her that yet?”

“Yes. She did not take it well,” Ulfric said wryly.

“Not exactly surprising,” the housecarl muttered. “My point is, if she wants to fight, you should allow her to do just that. You have no more control over her than a block of ice over the sun.”

A sigh, followed by a tired laugh. “I should have learned long ago that it is pointless to argue against you, old friend, let alone you and Kajsa combined.”

“You can learn it now,” the general said smugly. “Red-Blade should be coming by shortly, so you can give her that directive in person.”

Sensing her cue, Kajsa stepped away from the wall she’d been leaning against and entered the hallway, emerging into the war room. Galmar had his back to her, but Ulfric glanced up as she entered, a storm of emotions in his eyes that she couldn’t quite place – but most of all, uneasiness.

“Good to see you could finally make it,” Galmar remarked dryly, breaking her concentration on the jarl. “We have some things to discuss.”

“What kinds of things?”

The housecarl shrugged. “Capturing forts, besieging cities, winning wars – you know, the usual.” Barking out a laugh, he turned around to face her. “We’re making the final push into Haafingar.”

“And you will be joining us,” the jarl said quietly, “if you so choose.”

The Dragonborn hesitated for only a moment before nodding, unconsciously averting her sight from Ulfric’s face as she did so. The gesture surprised her. _Since when did I start caring about what other people thought of my decisions?_

 _Since two weeks ago,_ that’s _when..._

“Excellent,” the general growled. “We’ll be departing in the morning for Fort Hraggstad. The city stables, just before dawn. Make sure you have all your gear ready and with you, because we’re not damn well turning back for anything.”

“I’ll be there,” she promised.

Galmar briskly jerked his head in a nod, then glanced at the silent jarl. “I’ll leave you two while I go conference with the other officers.” With that, he strode past Kajsa and vanished into the hallway, leaving her with Ulfric.

Silence hung over the war room, and she forced herself to look up. He simply stood there, both hands folded behind his back in a cool, calm gesture – but too far away for her to see what was in his eyes.

“Hello.” It took her a moment to realize that she had broken the still first.

“Hello,” he responded, a touch of formality in his voice.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she could feel something holding her back. _What more can I say to him? I’ve told him so much already..._

“If you are searching for words, there is something that I would very much like you to say to me.” The jarl approached her, bringing up both hands and placing them on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes. “Promise me that you will keep yourself safe.”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” she retorted.

Both of his eyebrows rose at her statement. “That was not precisely what I was looking for, but...”

The Dragonborn sighed. “Fine. I’ll stick to the shadows. I won’t engage in open combat unless absolutely necessary. _But_ ,” she added immediately, “before I swear to do that, I want you to promise me something as well.”

Briefly, the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile before he sobered again. “What do you wish me to promise?”

“Keep yourself safe as well.” The words rushed out of her before she even knew she was thinking them. “If you die while taking Solitude –”

He kissed her, silencing her words. “I do not mean to die, Kajsa. I mean to take the city and survive, and my force of will _will_ prevail. Besides,” he added with a smile after a short pause, “I cannot in good conscience let you and Galmar take all the glory.”

“Between the two of us, we have all the glory we need,” she murmured.

Ulfric laughed. “But for legends such as us, only _some_ glory is never enough.” He leaned in for another kiss. “I promise you, Kajsa: I will keep myself safe.”

“And I as well.” She tilted her head back, allowing him to brush his mouth over hers, and then over her cheek and the line of her jaw – slowly, leisurely.

“Good.” His hands left her shoulders, and his arms wrapped around her waist as he embraced her. “You have given me some comfort, then.”

The Dragonborn nodded silently. Leaving his arms, she turned away to go.

“Kajsa.”

She stopped, turning back around.

“I have not had occasion to tell you this since we last spoke, but –” The jarl broke off, gathering his words. “It was brave of you to tell me all of that. Courageous. I know it was not easy for you, but I wanted to thank you for telling me.” His gaze sobered. “I only pray that one day, I will find your strength to speak to you about what I have kept buried.”

“About Elenwen,” she finished.

Ulfric nodded, his expression darkening at the name. “And I – I want also apologize for the bluntness of my invitation.” He forced a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My words did not at all come out in the manner I expected them to.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then how did you _want_ to say them?”

The jarl looked her directly in the eye, blue-green to dark brown. “What I was trying to say was... if you ever should feel alone and if you need someone to talk to, my door is always open to you.”

“And your bed is always empty for me,” she said wryly.

Now he laughed for real. “And it always will be.” His good humor gave way to solemnity again. “But only when you are ready.”

“I don’t know when that will be,” she confessed quietly.

Ulfric examined her face for a moment. Then: “You will know. You will know it when the time comes.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “And when it does, I will be waiting for you.”

“And you will know when you are ready to speak of Elenwen?”

The jarl paused before replying. “I pray I will,” he said quietly. “But what has been kept in the dark cannot easily come to light again.”

Kajsa took his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. “Then I will wait for you as well,” she said. “As long as you are willing to wait for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little note: tomorrow, I'm going on vacation for a week. I'll be halfway across the country without my laptop, but I'll have my iPad, so depending on whether or not I have Wi-Fi, I might be able to post new chapters. So don't be surprised if updates come a little slower this next week. :)
> 
> Oh, and have [more great art](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/post/125860227093/i-was-having-kind-of-an-art-block-but-at-least-i) from [pixelartlinda](http://pixelartlinda.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	50. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 4:45 AM right now, I have 45 minutes before I need to leave for the airport, and I'm posting a chapter... the things I do for love. XD

The cobblestones clattering underneath his horse’s hooves gave way to thudding dirt studded with stones worn smooth. Raising his hand to signal to the carts and the men behind him to stop, Ulfric dismounted from his horse and took his first real look at the hustle and bustle around him.

It had been a long time since he’d last seen this homestead – the small farm that served as Solitude’s stables – but it seemed so very different now. Hide tents had been pitched around the outskirts, and there were more than a few campfires with spits full of meat turning over them. Stormcloaks were everywhere: rushing from building to building with sacks of food and supplies, leading horses from the stables, sharpening weapons and restringing bows. As the jarl watched, a pair of soldiers pulled a cart full of large stones past his party and up the road – _likely for the catapults up nearer to Solitude,_ he reasoned.

Some Stormcloaks had finally looked up from their own tasks and noticed the new arrivals. With shouts of jubilation, they rushed towards Ulfric and the others, clapping them on the backs and greeting them warmly, calling their names with excitement.

The jarl smiled. Despite his weariness from spending the whole day on the road, the enthusiasm of the soldiers gave him new strength. _They have awaited this day for Talos only knows how long... and they are more than ready to march on Solitude now._

“Jarl Ulfric!” A broadly grinning Ralof elbowed his way thought the throng, pausing in front of him to salute. “You’ve finally made it!”

“Aye.” Handing off his horse’s reins to another Stormcloak, Ulfric shook the other’s hand and fell into step beside him; the other soldiers parted to let the two of them pass. “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. Galmar has told me that you were integral in taking Fort Hraggstad.’”

The younger Nord flushed with pride. “Thank you, Jarl Ulfric, but I think that the general might just have been – er...”

“Exaggerating?” the jarl laughed, finishing the sentence for him.

“No, my jarl. I was only going to say that I think that the general might just have been impressed that I was able to kill the legate at the fort single-handedly.”

“Even so, it is no small feat. Take pride in the fact that you turned the fight in our favor.” Ulfric patted him on the back proudly. _By the gods... it is like seeing myself as a younger man in the form of another._ “Speaking of the general, do you know where he is? I would speak with him.”

Ralof pointed towards a tall wooden house with a shingled roof and a stone foundation. “He and the Dragonborn are in there, finalizing the battle plans.” His eyes glowed with delight. “They say that we’ll be able to take Solitude soon.”

“Yes.” The jarl gazed off towards the house, almost speaking to himself rather than the soldier. “We will.”

* * *

Arms crossed over her chest, Kajsa stared into the crackling fire in the hearth. Even with her back to him, she could still feel Galmar’s disbelieving eyes boring into her – and even though she couldn’t see him, she could still imagine his face: completely dumbfounded and shocked and maybe even a little disgusted.

Then: “Are you shitting me, Red-Blade?”

“You asked,” she said, not turning around. “I just told you the truth.”

The housecarl sighed heavily. “So... are you honestly expecting me to believe that the Circle are werewolves, that Aela in this – this ‘beast form’ saved my life during the battle for the Embassy, and that _you_ were once one as well?”

“Not only that, but keep it secret as well.”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” the general muttered. “If I breathe a word of this to anyone else, they’d think I was touched in the head.”

The Dragonborn laughed quietly. “Thank you, Galmar.”

Galmar let out a non-committal grunt, and there was a creaking of wood from behind her that indicated he was leaning back in his seat. “If you don’t mind me asking... does Ulfric know? About _any_ of this?”

“Not about the Companions: just about me. What’s relevant to you is not always relevant to him, and vice versa.”

“Well, you can keep your other dark secrets to yourself,” the housecarl retorted. “I’m already beginning to regret asking if you knew anything about the wolves.”

Before she could answer, she heard the sound of the door opening and then thudding shut, accompanied by heavy footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Uncrossing her arms, Kajsa turned around to see who the newcomer was.

“I trust I am not too late,” Ulfric said, smiling slightly. “I only just received your missive yesterday, Galmar.”

“Well, it took you long enough,” the general growled, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from creeping onto his face. “Sit down and we’ll give you the debriefing.”

“That would be best.” Shrugging off his robe to reveal plain traveling clothes underneath, the jarl draped it over the back of a chair, then pulled it out and sat down in it. “There seems to have been much that you did not mention in your letter.”

Galmar shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you all the best parts, now, could I?” He glanced over at the Dragonborn. “Red-Blade, why don’t you start?”

Kajsa nodded and faced Ulfric. “We reached the Stormcloak camp near Fort Hraggstad roughly a week ago. The men had already amassed there and the catapults from Falkreath had already arrived. Scouts had begun combing the area to bring us back intelligence, and Galmar and I used that information to put together some battle strategies.

“We struck at night with a sudden attack: archers and catapults from afar and soldiers storming the main gates. The element of surprise gave us an edge at first, but there were many more Imperials than we’d expected, and they came close to overwhelming us a few times. However, we finally managed to beat them back in the end and captured the fort.”

The jarl rested his chin on his curled hand thoughtfully. “And where were you?”

 _Of_ course _he would ask that._ “Directing the archers at first, then once we’d won the fort, I helped to clear out the lingering Imperials inside.” She motioned towards the housecarl. “Galmar and Ralof led the charge.”

“Ah, yes. I understand that Ralof had some excitement in this battle.”

“‘Excitement’?” the general snorted. “He killed the commanding legate! The Imperials might have had nearly backed us against a wall then, but by Talos, they lost heart after that!”

Ulfric smiled. “And what of after Fort Hraggstad was taken?”

“We received a message from the lead ship in Jarl Skald’s fleet saying that the ships were in place. As of now, they’ve now been blockading Solitude for the majority of this week,” Galmar continued. “With that detail taken care of, we began to surround Solitude by entrenching ourselves in the settlements around it. Dragonsbridge, the docks outside the city, and these stables here were abandoned by the time we got to them; the people must have fled to Solitude. Some of the crops here were put to the torch, but there’s still a fair amount of food.”

“Only to be expected,” the jarl said. _Such is the way of war._ “And you have been at the stables for how long?”

“A few days.” The housecarl grinned fiercely. “With Skald’s fleet watching the harbor, our men watching the roads, and the catapults around the city, we’ve got Solitude caged now, Ulfric. Believe me when I say we’re ready to march on it and end this war once and for all.”

The Dragonborn examined Ulfric’s face, watching it become pensive and thoughtful as he thought it over. Then, he leaned back leisurely in his chair, an almost-cold, calculating smile on his face.

“Galmar, I believe you are right.” His eyes flitted up to her, but still he spoke to the general. “Go to the men and tell them this: tomorrow night, the end will begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	51. The Last, Longest Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all. Long time, no post, amirite?
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are in the end notes (and please pay attention to them if you think you need to be warned, because this is definitely one of the heavier chapters in the fic).
> 
>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Sing Loud," Alpha Rev](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7Gsx1sFZro)

After a long day of hard riding, the mead was just what he needed to quench his thirst. Pushing his chair away from the table, Ulfric took a slow swig from the bottle and then placed it down on the table; the maps and battle plans had been pushed towards the end farthest from him, allowing room for some bottles of mead on the other end.

The jarl leaned back in his seat, staring into the dying flames quietly sputtering in the hearth. _I will have to light more candles soon enough,_ he observed wryly.

But he knew that he would only be lighting the candles for himself, rendering it a somewhat pointless task. Galmar and Ralof were out drinking with some of the Stormcloaks in the courtyard, and presumably, Kajsa was with them. He was the only one left in the farmhouse, which, as his housecarl had told him, was serving as both war room and his personal chambers for as long as they remained here.

 _Which, gods willing, will not be very long._ Ulfric closed his eyes in meditation on what would come tomorrow night: Solitude falling to them, Elisif renouncing her claim to the throne, and Tullius lying headless on the ground. He smiled at the last thought.

 _All of these... all of these have been a long time in coming. How often have I dreamed of those moments? And_ now _– they are within my grasp..._

The muted sound of the door closing caused his eyes to open again, and he sat up suddenly, peering through the half-darkness of the room to see who was there.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Kajsa melted out of the shadows, slowly approaching the table he sat at.

The jarl smiled. “You have come to join me, then?”

“Galmar and his men were getting a little too rowdy for my taste. I enjoy peace and quiet when I can get it.”

Ulfric motioned to the other chair that had been dragged up nearer to the fireplace. “Please, sit. Drink with me.”

Seating herself, the Dragonborn leaned over to swipe one of the bottles of mead off the table. She was dressed in simple clothing: a loose shirt and a pair of belted breeches with worn leather boots. Seeing her in this garb with a bottle in her hand reminded him of the first time they’d sat down to have drinks together: at the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead after the negotiations for the short-lived ceasefire. _Gods, that seems ages ago..._

“Thinking on something?” Kajsa uncorked her drink and took a sip.

“Many things.” The jarl rested his elbows on the armrests, lacing his fingers together. “Solitude most of all.”

She scrutinized his pensive face. “Are you worried?”

“Not especially. I have faith in those beside me: the soldiers, Galmar, you. Our tactics are sound, and we have numbers on our side. We will win the battle – and more importantly, we _will_ win the war.” He found his voice full of conviction, surety that he actually felt.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I believe we will.” Her dark eyes focused on him again, almost questioningly. “Are you afraid?”

“Of what?” he laughed. “The Imperials do not frighten me. Tullius does not stir fear in my heart. The threats of the Empire do not cause me to quake and tremble. I do not have anything to be afraid of.”

The Dragonborn considered this for a moment. “What about death?” she asked, both of her hands wrapped tightly around her bottle of mead.

Ulfric half-frowned, stroking his beard in thought. Then: “No. I do not fear death.” His eyes met hers. “Of course, there was a time when I did, as do all living things. But now... I feel that if I were to be felled in battle, I would go to Sovngarde willingly.”

“Why?”

“Because I would know that my work here, on this world, was finally finished.” He let his gaze drift towards the faint tongues of flame weakly flickering in the hearth. “If it is the will of the gods that I should die in order to free Skyrim, I will accept it.”

There was silence between them for a moment. As Ulfric watched, the flames finally faded away and sunk into the ashes of the logs, leaving them glowing without warmth. Letting out a quiet sigh, he averted his gaze.

Kajsa’s low voice broke the still. “I used to not fear death. In the past, I have even wished for death to take me –” She swallowed and pain flashed across her eyes. “But I am afraid of it now.”

“And why is that?”

“You know where your soul will go after death. I do not.” She laughed bitterly. “One of the drawbacks of being a Daedric Champion.”

The jarl glanced at her in alarm. “Do you mean to say that – that _all_ of the Daedric Princes you have served... have a claim to your soul?” he breathed.

“Not all of them. But enough.” She placed her bottle of mead on the table, her hand shaking slightly. “Once, I was the Champion of many of the Princes – nearly all of them. I didn’t have a problem with that until my first battle against Alduin... until I knew my own mortality. That was when I realized the huge mistake I had made: when I died, the Daedric Princes would fight over my soul with those of Sovngarde, arguing over which one of them would receive the soul of the Dragonborn in the afterlife. No matter which one actually won out in the end, it would be far from pleasant.

“I took steps to try and remedy that. I gathered all of the artifacts I still had and set about returning as many of them as I could. Traveling to the Princes’ shrines throughout Skyrim and leaving their artifact there, I contacted each of them and denounced my Championship and renounced their claim on my soul.

“I knew it was a shot in the dark. I knew there was a very good chance that my desperate plan would not work. But it proved to be... somewhat easier than I expected. There were some who were reluctant to release me – Molag Bal and Hircine, in particular – but they all did so in the end. Well,” she corrected, “only the ones that I sought out.”

“You are still the Champion of some of the Princes?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Six.” The Dragonborn counted them off on her fingers. “Boethiah, Hermaeus Mora, Mehrunes Dagon, Mephala, Meridia, and Nocturnal. I – I have no _real_ issue with being the Champion of the first five – and having the artifacts that go along with the position – and I have sworn an oath to the last that I cannot go back on.” Her countenance sobered even further. “But it is enough to ensure that I will not go to Sovngarde when I die.”

“But do you wish to?” Ulfric pressed.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “More than anything.”

“Then why did you even become a Daedric Champion in the first place?” His question came out sharper than he’d intended to.

“Because I needed revenge – and I needed the power to carry it out,” she hissed, her jaw tight. “I _had_ to ensure that the next time I faced Orthorien, I would be more powerful than he... and then I would be able to kill him.” Her tone grew less harsh as her eyes fell from his. “But things never work out the way we intend them, do they? No amount of ‘favor’ with the Daedra can rid me of him now.”

At first, the jarl did not know what she meant – but then the realization hit him. “He is still in your nightmares.” _No wonder she would never discuss them..._

Kajsa nodded mutely, her lips tightening in pain. “Always. Ever since I escaped Helgen...” Her voice broke off for a moment. “They faded for a time, but they resurfaced when Karliah told me that Vlindrel Hall had been broken into. If anything... they almost seem to have worsened since I killed him –”

She stood up abruptly, pressing her palms against the stone of the mantelpiece and hanging her head, her breathing unsteady. Ulfric remained where he was, silent and still, unsure of whether or not to reach out to her.

The Dragonborn finally spoke without lifting her head. “What is it about you that compels me to tell you these things – things I’ve told no one else?” She laughed, but it was without cheer. “Ever since we’ve met, you – you’ve _changed_ me.”

“For better or for worse?” the jarl asked darkly.

“I don’t know,” she said simply. “But...”

“But what?” he persisted, unconsciously feeling his fingernails digging into his hands.

Kajsa tilted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes dark with emotions that he could not put a name to. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently... something Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone told me the last time I saw her. A – a prophecy of sorts that – that concerned _me_.

“She said that she saw three men. The one that walked with me, the ‘dark swordsman.’ The one that I run to, the ‘great bear.’ And – and the one that I run from, the ‘golden-eyed one.’” She swallowed.

“She said that one is my past, but that I mistake him for my present. That one is my present, but that I am unsure of whether he will be my future. And that one is my present, but that I wish him to be my past. And then...” She took a deep, shaky breath. “She finished with these words: ‘Two you love and one you hate. Two will destroy you and one will save you.’”

Ulfric felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the eerie words.

“Ever since my rescue from the Embassy, I’ve been trying to work it out.” Straightening up, she let her hands drop from the mantelpiece and fall to her sides as she turned to face him with a quiet resoluteness. “And I think I finally have.

“The identities of the three men... that was the first thing I figured out. The ‘dark swordsman’ is Tariq. The ‘great bear’ is you. And the ‘golden-eyed one’... well, that could only be Orthorien.

“Tariq was my past, but I still thought he had bearing on my life then. Orthorien was my present, the old ghost that I wanted gone and buried in my past. And – “ Her gaze dropped for an instant before rising again. “I didn’t realize this until a dream I had... when I saw both of them in it... but they both – they _both_ have destroyed me, even as I destroyed them. Orthorien, clearly, but Tariq – his legacy made me cling to the past, to something that could never be. But I loved him still.”

“And what of me?” Standing, the jarl took both of her hands in his own, rubbing his fingers over her white knuckles.

The Dragonborn slowly looked up at him, wetting her lips with her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice was low and hoarse, yet earnest.

“You – you are my present, the present that I want as my future.” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’ll be lucky enough to get it, but – I’m damn well going to try.”

Silence fell, and Ulfric found that he had to remind himself to breathe in the wake of his struggle for words. _She has said it. After so long... she has said it._

Releasing her hands, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. She surrendered to his embrace, draping her arms over his shoulders and tucking her head underneath his chin. He was reminded of another memory: the memory of the day she announced she would join the Stormcloaks, when she returned from Sovngarde and fighting the World-Eater and he could not stop himself from sweeping her into his arms. _And I still cannot stop myself now._

They stood there in each other’s arms in complete silence for a moment before Kajsa lifted her head and met his gaze. “I – I would stay with you tonight,” she finally said. “If you would still have me.”

Despite the quickening of his pulse at her words, the jarl frowned. “Are you certain?” he asked quietly. “I have no wish to force you again.”

An emotion sparked in her eyes: something of pain, something of passion, but more of determination. “You are not ‘forcing’ me to do anything, Ulfric Stormcloak. This is _my_ decision – my _own_.” She exhaled, and her tone softened, almost into something pleading. “You said that I’d know when I was ready. And I’m ready now.”

Before he could respond, the weight of her arms left his shoulders and her hands suddenly pressed against his chest, pushing him back into his seat. She straddled his legs, tangling her fingers in his hair and kissing him hard on the mouth. Leaning back, he allowed her to fall into him further, feeling her body press against him.

His hands wandered over her: running up and down her back, rubbing the curve of her waist and her hips. One hand cupped her breast and he felt her heartbeat pounding underneath, gaining speed with every brush of his fingers.

With one arm around her and one hand underneath her, Ulfric lifted her up with him as he stood, running his hand down her thigh. She wrapped her legs around his waist to hold herself in place, kissing him again and nearly making him forget which direction he was going as he strode as best he could past the table, past the cupboard that divided the room, and to the double bed that lay beyond.

Kneeling on the thin mattress covering the wooden bed frame, he laid her down on it, her legs loosening from his waist as she fell back onto the fur blankets. Raising his hands, he began to undo the fastenings on his tunic. The Dragonborn pushed herself back up to a seated position, her nimble fingers aiding him in his endeavor. It was not long until his tunic and the shirt underneath it had been discarded, tossed towards a stool in a far corner of the room, followed by his boots, which he’d tugged off himself.

Pressing her back down onto the mattress, the jarl leaned over her, planting his hands on either side of her as he lowered his head and met her lips again. He brushed kisses over her scarred cheek, then following the angle of her jaw and then down the vulnerable curve of her neck. His teeth lightly grazed her collarbone and he felt her suck in a quick breath; whether it was in fear or pleasure, he could not tell.

His mouth found the neckline of her shirt. Lifting a hand up, he loosened the laces as best he could and pulled the fabric aside, exposing more of her chest and shoulders. The scars from Alduin’s teeth came into view, white and jagged and angry.

Underneath him, Kajsa tensed.

He sat up almost immediately, withdrawing his hand. “What is it?”

Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “I – my scars –” Hastily, she drew her legs up towards her and quickly licked her fingers, and then reached for the burning candle on the nightstand.

Ulfric grabbed her wrist, then checked himself and slid his grasp up to her hand. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t want you to see them,” she insisted softly, urgently.

“I already have,” he responded, remembering the nightmare he’d had the night before he discovered that she’d went missing.

After a moment of hesitation, the Dragonborn gave him a strained smile. “Of course... it’s not like I was wearing much besides rags when I was rescued from the Embassy.” Swallowing, she slowly let her hand drop.

“Are you still sure about this?” he asked quietly, freeing her wrist. _If she is still this uncomfortable baring herself to me – her body, her_ soul...

She looked into his eyes, and a challenging look was in them. “Yes. I – I am.”

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Kajsa pried off her boots with both hands, leaving them there as she stood up. Grasping the hem of her shirt, she lifted it up, her grip tightening the further up the fabric rose. The jarl only caught a brief glimpse of the brand and the whip scars on her back before she turned around, dropping the shirt at her feet. The marks from Alduin’s teeth were not the only scars he noticed now – a long, thin scar that ran from somewhere underneath her breast band and down over her stomach, nearly to the waistband of her pants.

Biting her lip, the Dragonborn fumbled with the buckle of her belt, the silvery burns on her arms flashing in the dying candlelight. Lying on his side and propping himself up with one elbow, he watched as she loosened her belt and then worked the leather of her pants down over her lean thighs and calves.

The garment hit the floor with a clink as the belt buckle hit the wooden floor, and, uncertainly, she stepped away from the pool of her clothing. Her dark eyes never wavered or fell from his as she slowly approached the bed once more.

* * *

_Vulnerable._

It was the only way to describe how she felt: wearing nothing except for her breast band and her smalls, with her hair unbound and the scars marring her skin gleaming in the candlelight, lit up for his scrutiny. Her heart hammered in her chest, reminding her that over all else – more than desire, even – she was afraid.

_I can’t do this. I can do this. I can’t do this._

Trying to swallow her fear, Kajsa forced herself to climb back onto the bed, her limbs stiff and unbending. He waited there for her, clad in only his breeches. Her mouth was dry and she took in an uneven breath as she lay down beside him, her back against the blankets and hidden from his sight.

The dim light of the candle flame illuminated the raking scars on his bare chest – _claw marks?_ she wondered – and a single pale slash around his waist, but she saw no other visible marks or blemishes. Some part of her noted that the muscles of his arms and stomach were still remarkably well-toned for a man of his age. Even without most of his clothes, he still managed to exude power and authority.

His light blue-green eyes traced over her exposed body, and she tensed, waiting for him to recoil. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly deep with want.

“What?” she whispered.

Ulfric raised his eyes from her form to her face, and for the first time, she saw the emotion that lay within them: not disgust or horror, but a sort of quiet admiration. “What were you expecting me to say?” One of his hands slid into the curve of her waist and stayed there, searing her skin with its warmth. “You are a very beautiful woman, Kajsa.”

“Even with these scars?” she asked, surprised.

“Especially with your scars.” His hand passed over her hip bone, a finger tracing a small scar left by a wolf’s tooth on her upper thigh. “They were left here to give testament to your strength... your courage... your fortitude.”

“My mistakes,” she said, her voice breaking with anger.

A shadow passed over the jarl’s face briefly. “The gods give us scars to remind us of our shortcomings, yes. But they also show that we have survived where others could not, that we have risen when we have fallen.” He bent his head to kiss her again. “They show that you are brave.”

 _Brave. Brave._ “Am I?” she murmured. _I have never thought of myself as such... only someone who did what was necessary to survive._

Ulfric nodded, his hand drifting back up her hip again. “We have both suffered greatly in our lives. But unlike others, we are brave enough to allow our trials make us stronger and more powerful than we would have been otherwise. We are brave enough to take control of our own fate. And we are brave enough to admit our fears.”

“I have told you of my fears, but _you_ have told me nothing of yours,” the Dragonborn retorted, sitting up on the bed; his hand had found her waist again and remained there. “So tell me truly, Ulfric Stormcloak: what do you fear in this world?”

The jarl thought for a moment, his gaze still meeting hers. Then: “I fear what will come about should the Aldmeri Dominion become absolute in their grip on Tamriel, if all the fighting I have done comes to nothing. And now that I have you, now that I am certain of your feelings towards me... I fear losing you again.”

Lifting himself from his position on the mattress, he raised himself over her form, pushing her back down onto the bed as he did so. One of his knees pressed between her legs, gently pushing them apart, and the hand that had been on her waist trailed upwards until it reached her breast band; she closed her eyes, biting down on her lower lip as her fingers curled in the blankets. His fingers found where the ends of the garment had been tucked in, and he tugged them out, removing the strip of cloth entirely and tossing it aside.

She felt his touch lingering on the round scar left by Karliah’s arrow over her heart, and then moving downwards, outlining the base of her breast until it reached the end of the longer scar left by Mercer’s sword. “By Talos,” he swore under his breath, “how are you alive after wounds like these?”

“The arrow was tipped with a paralytic poison that slowed my heart,” she whispered. “Had it not been for Karliah’s skill with the bow, I would have bled out.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes, but Ulfric only smiled. “I knew there was a reason I liked Karliah.” His smile faded as his fingers brushed over the place where the scar trailed off. “But what of this one?”

“Mercer Frey. My predecessor as Guildmaster.” Her jaw tightened. “He meant to kill me, but I killed him in the end.”

The jarl nodded and she found herself falling silent. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his mouth to her skin, kissing the underside of her breast where the scar began. Her breath hitched in her throat and she exhaled unsteadily, the sound shuddering, as his lips traced the scar over her stomach and down to her hips.

Then his hand slipped between her thighs, fingernails grazing the sensitive skin ever so slightly, and her eyes flew back open with a gasp, her body stiffening involuntarily at his touch.

_Do not struggle. You are not in a position to, my dear._

Kajsa gritted her teeth, trying to shut out _his_ voice in her head even as her breath came in short, uneven pants and her heart clawed at her ribcage. _I can do this. I_ will _do this._ Her vision swam before her eyes, and for an instant, she thought she saw golden eyes flashing in the dark corners of the room.

At the periphery of her senses, she felt his hand slip away and his mouth leave her skin. Dimly, she heard him ask something, but his words ran together in one deep river of sound.

“No –” Her voice sounded distant, moaning, and she bit the side of her cheek, the tang of blood in her mouth bringing her closer to reality. “No. I – I’m fine.”

There was a pause before Ulfric spoke again; this time, she heard him clearer, and his voice was low and dark. “I am not certain of that.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she insisted, and she hated how desperate she sounded. “Just – don’t stop, Ulfric. _Please._ ”

( _My dear,_ she heard almost instantly, as chills coursed through the scars on her back, _you have no idea how long I have waited for you to_ beg.)

The bed frame creaked as he sat up, the warmth of his body fully leaving hers; her tightening muscles fell slack, but her heart still pounded out an alarm. She sat up, blinking furiously in an attempt to clear her vision, and she glimpsed him sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

Anger suddenly filled her at his indifference. “So this is it?” she asked, her voice hoarse and ragged. “You say you want me, but when I finally give myself to you, you –” She struggled to find the words she wanted. “You just don’t care,” she finished bitterly.

“I care enough to not want you to suffer.” He turned his head, and his expression could have rivaled storm clouds in fury. “It is no lie that I want you, Kajsa, but I would rather you be in my bed willingly.”

“What makes you think I’m _not_ here by my own choice?” she hissed. “Dammit, Ulfric, just fuck me and get it _over_ with –” Her voice hitched and faltered.

“Do you think I did not recognize how you acted?” he growled. “You may think you know what you want, but I refuse to force you. I refuse to be what Orthorien was to you.”

Something in his words stilled her anger, and the Dragonborn stared at him for a moment in realization. The candlelight flickered over his back, and though they had long since healed, razor-thin scars – _whip scars –_ were still etched into the flesh, creating a spider’s web of silver over his skin.

“Elenwen –?” she breathed.

The jarl dropped his head, not meeting her eyes. Then: “By the time I escaped captivity – or was _allowed_ to escape – the war was all but over. The Imperial City had been captured and then reclaimed, but at great cost; all that was left now was for the Emperor to call for peace with a treaty that would damn the Empire.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Most of the regiments for Skyrim were at the signing, but I refused to go. Went drinking with Galmar at some sleazy tavern in the Imperial City; got too drunk on brandy to tell which hand was left and which was right. But when the girl serving us pulled me into an empty bedchamber –” He exhaled harshly. “I did not know what had come over me. One minute, she was on my lap with her hands raking down my uniform... and the next, she was on the floor with my hands around her throat.”

Kajsa felt her gaze go unbidden to his chest and the scars that raked across it. With a chill, she suddenly realized that they were marks left by fingernails.

“If Galmar had not found me before –” His mouth tightened. “I remember I gave the girl the last of my coin and told her to leave.” He paused for a moment, and he looked more wretched than she had ever seen him before. “I never learned her name, but I remember thinking that she – she was just as much a victim as I had been.”

Shifting herself closer to him, the Dragonborn placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it slightly. His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world was upon them, and he finally reached up and placed his hand over hers.

“How long did it take you?” he asked quietly. “It – it took _months_ – gods, almost a year – before I could truly feel comfortable with anyone: lovers, friends, even _family_.”

Kajsa swallowed. “This –” She sighed. “This would have been my first time since – since coming to Skyrim.” _Since Tariq died._

Ulfric raised his eyes to hers, and it surprised her to see sympathy in them. His fingers curled around hers, twining themselves into her grasp, and it felt more comforting than anything else he could have done. Behind them, the candle sputtered again, nearly going out.

“So what happens now?” she asked quietly.

“I will leave that to you.” His other hand went to her cheek, thumb brushing over the scars there. “But do not make a choice that you will regret.”

She thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. The taste of blood had faded from her mouth, leaving a throbbing welt on the inside of her cheek. Everything felt real again – much too real for her liking.

“If we are to do this,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, “you need to be _very_ wary of where you lay your hands. Here –” she tapped the underside of her chin “– and here –” she patted her other wrist “– you already know of, but...” She placed her hand flat on her thigh, fingers pointing down. “Just be –” She could not bring herself to say “gentle” – _neither of us is “gentle.” Not in war, and not in love._

Ulfric nodded, sparing her the words. “And if you wish me to stop?” he asked, his countenance sober now. “What will be your signal?”

“ _Vuth_ ,” she said, speaking in the dragon tongue. _Stop._ “I’ll try to use it if I feel I have to, but – if I don’t and you don’t think I’m... in a right state of mind...” She met his gaze. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

“You would put the whole of your trust in me?”

She almost smiled, but it seemed strained to her. “It’s not as though I haven’t done it before.”

“This is very different from before,” he reminded her.

“But I still would,” she said quietly.

The jarl’s smile was slight, but it was real. “Good.” His hand trailed down her neck to her shoulder, and he untangled his other hand from her grasp to stroke the curve of her waist.

She let him lay her back down on the bed, his body looming over her: not wholly upon her, but close enough to feel the heat from his skin. He bent down to kiss her again, and she held onto his shoulders, bringing him in even closer. His hand traveled from her waist to her breast, and his thumb grazed her nipple, massaging it with a slow, steady circular motion. Her quavering exhale gave way to a breathy sigh as his mouth came down upon her other breast, leaving ghosts of kisses on the sensitive flesh.

One knee pressed between her thighs again, and she hesitated a moment before parting her legs, leaving her center open to him. His touch left her breast and the hand on her shoulder brushed down over her chest, her stomach, her hip before slipping between her legs, his palm pressing against her inner thigh, guiding her legs further apart. Cold air, followed by the warmth of his breath, touched the apex of her thighs as she felt her smalls being untied and slipped off.

His lips brushed between her legs and she felt her body jerk at the sensation, heat beginning to pool within her core and trickling lower. A moan escaped her as his fingers danced over her folds with his tongue not far behind, and closing her eyes, she let herself be carried away by his deft touch as he kissed and stroked and teased, coaxing and stoking the fire building deep within her.

 _This can’t be real,_ she thought, her mind becoming hazy again. _Oh, but this is real; gods, this is_ real.

Slowly, the warmth of his touch faded from her center and she heard the barely discernable sound of fabric rubbing against skin. She opened her eyes enough to see the dark mass of his breeches being tossed aside, followed by the paler one of his loincloth.

Hands planted on either side of her shoulders once more, Ulfric leaned over her again, honey-blonde hair nearly obscuring his face and falling against her neck. Panic stirred in her for a moment, and winding her arms around him, she twisted her hips up in an attempt to turn him on his back. He pressed the weight of his lower body downwards: not enough to threaten, but just enough to keep her in place. She felt his need against her thigh, hot and hard and insistent, and something primal stirred deep within her, something stronger than her need for control.

“Permit me?” he murmured, his voice little more than a low rumble against her ear.

Heart still racing, she responded by placing a hand on his cheek and guiding his head back, allowing their mouths to meet again. His hips lifted again and one of his hands went downwards to his member, guiding the tip to her entrance.

And then he was inside her: shallow at first, his hips pressing against hers in a slow, controlled motion – but then drawing back and pushing in again. His free hand slid around her thigh and underneath her backside, lifting her hips upwards, and Kajsa could not help but let out a soft cry as she felt him go deeper within her. She wound her arms around his shoulders even tighter and tilted her head back as his lips caressed the hollow of her throat.

He kept his rhythm: in and out, going just a little bit deeper every time with every move he made. She found herself lifting her legs to wrap around him, first one and then the other, bringing her hips in even closer to him. Her body molded to his, the vibration of the growl in his chest carried over into her own soft moans when he finally sheathed himself fully in her, and her fingernails dug into his back, clinging to him and to the pleasure that he was giving her.

“Ulfric –” she gasped, feeling the old, familiar pressure, that white-hot heat building inside of her with every touch, every kiss, every thrust: that intense longing for release that made her want to forsake her pride and beg for that single moment – “ _Please –_ ”

He raised his head, lifting his mouth from her throat, and she saw the hunger in his eyes. And he kissed her with that same hunger, with his teeth grazing her lower lip and his breath burning with shallow inhalations. As his hands found her breasts once more, kneading and stroking, his hips rolled against her own and he plunged deep into her again. She cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth on hers, and she arched her back even higher as he claimed her over and over –

And, for a single, fleeting moment, the fire blazed high within her: enveloping her senses and pumping through her veins, fueling her heart with its wild burning, seizing her body in its throes. Through the pleasure flooding her mind, she heard herself cry out, the sound mingling with his own wordless roar. She came undone, falling limp and sated in his arms.

Her eyelids dropped as her head hit the pillow, and she heard her blood pounding in her ears as she sucked in deep breaths of air, trying to stabilize her breathing. He lingered inside her briefly, and then slowly withdrew, his seed dripping on the inside of her thigh. His weight lifted off of her as he rolled to one side and landed with a grunt on the mattress, his heavy breathing breaking the still.

She knew not how long she lay there: naked with her limbs splayed out loosely on the blankets, a sheen of sweat on her flushed skin, hair fanning out around her head in a tangled halo. Her whole body seemed to ache, the pain reminding her of how long she’d gone without being with a man. _Too long._

Ulfric sighed contentedly, the quiet sound louder than her own thoughts. His touch returned to her, his fingers brushing against her waist again with a sort of reverence. “Kajsa –” he breathed. “Katarina –”

In the midst of the silence, it was an unexpected shock, stabbing through her heart and ripping it in two.

* * *

Suddenly, Ulfric felt his fingers slip from her skin as she rolled away from him, her body curling in on itself in a defensive position. Nearly at the edge of the bed, she lay shaking on her side. Every time her shoulders seized up, the scars that stretched over her back rippled over her skin, gleaming in the near-dark in the instant before the candle finally died, easing the room into cool, cold darkness.

Alarmed, he turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Kajsa?”

She did not respond.

Cautiously, the jarl edged over to her, pushing himself over the blankets until he was directly behind her. Her breaths were coming in harsh, uneven gasps, and with a start, he realized that she was crying.

 _After all the trust she placed in me..._ this _is what I have done to her?_ He placed one hand on her trembling shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Kajsa, I –”

“ _That_ is my name.” All but choked by a sob, the whisper was nearly unintelligible. “ _My_ name, my _only_ name now. I was Katarina to _him_ , to both of them –”

He pressed his mouth to the base of her neck as his hand lifted from her shoulder and his arm wrapped around her, pulling her against him. His other hand wove through her hair, smoothing the knotted strands. Her body stilled somewhat, but her breathing remained ragged and labored.

“Was that better?” he asked quietly.

Twisting around in his arms, she rolled over on her side to face him. “I – it was. Better than – than how I thought it would go.” She tucked her head underneath his chin, draping one arm over his side. “You don’t have to worry about me as much as you do, you know. I’m not worth worrying about.”

“I do not believe that.” _And just tonight, she did many things that were cause for worry._

Kajsa was silent and still for a moment. Then: “I don’t know what to think anymore.” Her voice was so soft, he could barely hear it. “I don’t know what to do, what to say, what to feel... everything seems so strange to me now.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed, curling into him further. “I feel as though I’ve been so isolated for so long that – that some things are still beyond my grasp. Like... like hearing my birth name and being _surprised_ to hear it in a friendly tone, used by someone I care about. Like...” Her voice trailed off and she was quiet again.

“It does not always have to seem that way to you,” he said. “Orthorien is dead. He cannot hunt you anymore; you need not fear your name from his mouth.”

“And Tariq is dead, too,” she finished with a trace of bitterness, “so I need not fear it from his, either.” She raised her head, the light in her dark eyes glinting in the sparse moonlight streaming in from across the room. “But what of yourself?”

“It seems a shame to abandon such a name long after the time for abandonment is past,” he told her. “I would call you by it if you would allow me.”

The Dragonborn let out a long, shaking sigh. “Perhaps.” She laid her head back down on the pillow, beside his own. “Let me hear it from you again.”

Slowly, he brought a hand up to her scarred cheek and pressed his mouth to hers. “Katarina...” he whispered against her lips.

She kissed him back, winding her arms around his shoulders and pulling herself against him. He wrapped his arms a little tighter around her, reveling in the feel of her warm body against his as she hooked one leg around him, drawing herself nearer. He was surprised to feel that her body did not hold the same tension that it had before, and he found himself kissing her again, relishing the moment.

Finally, reluctantly, Ulfric broke off the kiss to reach down and grab one of the folded blankets from the end of the bed, dragging it over them. He spread it out with one hand, smoothing it over both of them before settling back down. She leaned her head against his chest, her breathing soft and steady.

Then: “How long? How long have you wanted me?”

The question took him slightly aback. “I do not know,” he answered thoughtfully, one hand moving to her hair and stroking it. “If I had to guess, it may have had its beginnings with that dress you wore to dinner the night you demanded I release you from my service...”

To his surprise, she laughed; the sound eased his heart. “I should have known.”

“You looked beautiful, though.” His free hand brushed over her thigh. “Blue suits you.”

“Perhaps I’ll trust Niranye more with my wardrobe choices in the future if that’s the case,” she mused, a smile in her voice. “Except maybe the dress won’t have to be stolen this time. I can just go to Radiant Raiment and have them tailor one for me instead.”

Now _he_ laughed. “Why am I not surprised to learn it was stolen?” he mused dryly.

“Not by my hand, though. That has to count for _something_.”

The jarl smiled. “Your line of work does not bother me as much as it did when first we met.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let us get some sleep. We will need it for tomorrow.”

“Mm-hmm.” He felt her relax against him, her heart slowing to a steady thud.

Ulfric opened his mouth to wish her a good night, but then hesitated. “Kajsa?”

A pause. “Yes?”

 _I_ need _to tell her... in case the worst occurs._ “No matter what happens tomorrow... I want you to know that what we have... I treasure it more than any crown I may win tomorrow.”

Silence. Then she pressed her lips to his chest in a tender kiss.

As his heart seemed to lighten with that single gesture, he knew it was all the answer he needed.

“Good night... Katarina.”

He felt her slow smile against him. “Good night, Ulfric,” she murmured.

Closing his eyes, the jarl fell asleep with a smile on his face and her clasped in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Dubious consent, PTSD attacks (and the recounting of), semi-explicit sex
> 
> In regards to Ulfric's torture by Elenwen, I will not be writing about it in much detail - mostly because better writers than I already have, and I have no desire to plagiarize. Two fics that inspired my headcanons about Ulfric's experiences as a prisoner of war are ["The Elf's Toy"](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9582847/1/The-Elf-s-Toy) by [ScriptrixDraconum](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4563275/ScriptrixDraconum) and ["Season Unending"](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9790637/1/Season-Unending) by [Heiwako](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3804154/Heiwako).
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	52. Solitude (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last-minute chapter post before my flight back home!

Raising one fist over the surface of the small wooden door that led into the farmhouse, Galmar banged on it harshly. “Ulfric!” _It’s the middle of the afternoon; you_ better _not still be sleeping while I’m trying to get the men prepared._

He paused for a moment, waiting impatiently with his fist still resting on the door. But there was no sign that the jarl had even heard him.

 _Fine. I’m going in._ Sighing exasperatedly, the housecarl made to open the door. Finding it unlocked, he cracked it open. “Ulfric, did you hear me?”

A rustling of heavy-sounding fabric and some low laughter. “Wait outside for a moment, Galmar,” called the jarl.

The general rolled his eyes and heaved another sigh, but not without a snort and a slight smile. _Just as I thought. Lazing around in bed while I take care of everything._

From within the house came the hurried sound of fabric against skin and groggy footfalls on the floor, nearing the door. Finally, a hand gripped the edge of the door and Ulfric pulled it open fully. “Come in.”

Galmar walked past him and inside the farmhouse. The first place his eyes went was to the table, where the battle plans had been last night; they had been pushed unceremoniously over to the side to make way for two bottles of mead.

He looked back at the jarl for some explanation. “Please tell me you weren’t sleeping off a hangover this morning.”

Ulfric laughed, closing the door. “I was not. It was only the one bottle.”

For the first time, the housecarl noticed his friend’s disheveled state: tangled hair, hastily pulled-on clothing, bare feet. _And the situation grows even more dire._ “Then what _were_ you doing? Bedding some – some camp follower?”

“‘Camp follower’? As far as insults go, that’s a new one for me.”

At the low, amused voice from behind him, the general craned his head back around. A smirking Kajsa leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over her chest and wearing nothing but a pair of trousers and her breast band.

Galmar stared at her, then gaped at Ulfric, and then looked back and forth from both of them again. He tried to summon up some words, _any_ words, but his mouth would not do his bidding.

The Dragonborn broke the silence again. “Have you seen my shirt, Ulfric?”

“I might be wearing it. I thought that this seemed a little tighter than usual.” The jarl tugged the shirt up over his head, balled it up, and tossed across the room to her.

“Thanks.” She pulled it on, hastily tying the laces at the collar. “I’m going out to fetch my armor. Do you want me to see if I can find yours as well?”

“Thank you for the offer, but it is already inside.” Ulfric jerked his head towards the steel plate armor wrapped in furs and resting on a chair.

“Alright, then.” Kajsa brushed past the still-stunned housecarl on her way out the door.

As soon as the front door closed behind her, Galmar rounded on the jarl. “What in Talos’ ever-loving, holy name were you thinking?”

“Calm yourself, Galmar.” Ulfric sprawled in a chair, leaning back in it indolently. “It is of no concern to you who I sleep with.”

“It is if they’re as dangerous as _her_.” The general jabbed one finger at the door. “Have you forgotten all the times she’s bucked under that oath of fealty you made her swear to you? After Solitude, I wouldn’t be surprised if – if –” He threw his hands up in frustration. “Well, I don’t know _exactly_ what, but –”

“Precisely,” the jarl said, a dangerous growl creeping into his voice. “Your accusations are more than a little unfounded.”

“How about _this_ for foundation?” Galmar gestured at Ulfric’s state of undress. “You say you love her. Love has a way of blinding people. If you’re not looking out for yourself, than who’s going to look out for you?” He stabbed his finger back at himself. “Me, that’s who!

“I’m not saying you should dump her by the wayside, because you’re right about needing her on our side if we want to win this war. All I’m saying is that you should start planning ahead – for what’ll come _after_ Solitude.”

Ulfric’s eyes narrowed. “Is that all you have come here to say?” he asked darkly. “Or do you have something more to tell me?”

The housecarl sighed. _As usual... not listening to a word I say._ “I’d advise that you get suited up. I came to tell you that we’re just about ready to march to the gates.”

* * *

_Planning ahead._

Even long after he’d gone, Galmar’s words kept echoing, resounding in Ulfric’s mind. _Planning ahead... for what will come after. After Solitude. After Tullius lies dead, after the city has fallen to us – what then?_

 _The Moot,_ a voice in the back of his mind whispered. _And with none to oppose your claim, you_ will _be crowned High King of Skyrim._

_If you survive this battle... all you have worked for will be within your grasp. The life and title you have dreamed of for Talos knows how long, the power and authority you have desired – it all will be yours once the war is over._

_But once the war is over... where is the place of Kajsa in my life?_

The jarl folded his fingers together, brow furrowing in a pensive frown. There was no denying that the Dragonborn was a woman that he desired greatly. She possessed beauty, intelligence and cunning far beyond her years, prowess in battle, a prodigious command of the Voice – _and a clear political advantage to be gained from her company,_ he added to himself. _If there happened to be any dissenters at the Moot, they would not deny my claim – not if I had the Dragonborn by my side._

The answer came to him then, clear as day.

_I will marry her... and I will make her my queen._

It was a perfect solution. She said herself last night that she longed for power, and he himself wanted to keep her: both as an ally and as a lover. She said that she wanted their relationship to continue, and he felt the same. Together, two legends such as themselves, they could inspire a nation – a continent, even – into rising up against the Aldmeri Dominion.

He smiled slightly. _Surely, she would not object to that..._

“What are you thinking about?”

Ulfric glanced up. Kajsa stood by the chair, outfitted now in her ebony armor: cuirass, boots, and gauntlets. Her head was bare, and her hair was pulled back from her face in tight braids against her skull, displaying the red war paint that she’d spread around her eyes and down over her cheeks, making it appear as though she was weeping tears of blood. She carried no weapon save for the eerie silvery dagger at her hip.

“I was thinking of you,” he answered, rising from his chair. He himself had already gotten into his own armor, the same steel plate set as before, a while ago; his war axe, Queen Freydis’ sword, and his shield were lying on the table alongside the securely wrapped bundle he’d brought with him from Windhelm.

“Really?” she remarked quietly, her eyebrows raised. “Having second thoughts?”

“About last night? Never.” _How many men can say that they have conquered the Dragonborn? It is an achievement in and of itself._ But by the same token, when he remembered the stiffness in her limbs and the glassy, haunted look in her eyes, there was a part of him that took no joy in that "achievement." _  
_

A small smile curved her lips, but her eyes were dark. “I fear that Galmar’s disdain for me has only grown. Not that he ever liked me in the first place.”

“He feels that you are dangerous.” He placed one hand where the curve of her neck met her shoulder, knowing that even without him touching them that she felt as though his hand was actually resting on the scars there. “Given knowledge of your exploits and adventures, I am inclined to agree with him.”

“You’ve never actually seen me in battle, have you?” she murmured, almost to herself.

“No, but I should like to.” One finger brushed under and around her jaw in a practiced motion, avoiding her chin. “Your skill is legendary.”

Her sly smile grew. “Then tonight, you will know the truth of what Galmar said. I consider myself _very_ dangerous.”

He returned her gesture. “Then I am fortunate to have you on my side.” Unconsciously, his eyes flickered to the bundle on the table. _Now is as good a time as any._

The Dragonborn followed his gaze. “What is that?”

“A gift for you.” His hand trailing from her shoulder, he reached over and lifted the bundle with both hands, presenting it to her. “I have noticed that you collect weapons, but I know not to what end.”

“I like to keep them as trophies. Reminders of my victories.”

The jarl’s eyes met hers again. “Then I think you shall find this particularly appropriate.” Keeping a tight grip on the bundle, he carefully unwrapped the cloth around it, displaying it to her.

Kajsa stared in disbelief at the jagged, red-and-black Daedric sword with the enchantment sparking on its edge, and then lifted her gaze, her dark eyes questioning and stunned. “This is – this is _his_ sword.”

“The one that you killed him with,” he reminded.

“Why are you giving this to _me_?” Her voice came out like a whiplash, harsh and sudden.

“In the hope that it might serve a better master than Orthorien,” he said simply.

Hesitating a moment, she slowly lifted the blade from its wrappings, bringing it up to the light to scrutinize it carefully. Ulfric watched her in silence.

She turned her head to him. “Regardless of its history, it is a fine sword.” The Dragonborn smiled, but there was still some tightness in it. “And it’s not as though my other weapons have a spotless record filled with righteous smiting.”

 _Was this a mistake?_ “If you do not wish for it, I –”

“No.” Eyes darkly grim, Kajsa fastened both sword and scabbard by her side, letting them fall to rest against her other hip. “I will keep it.”

The jarl nodded. “I still have one thing left for you: a title, one that should have gone to you after Riften and not now.”

She smirked. “You mean to give me a thanehood?”

“No. Something more important than that.” He placed both hands on her shoulders. “By my right as jarl, I give you, Kajsa Red-Blade, the title of Stormblade. Do you accept?”

Almost immediately, the Dragonborn leaned in, brushing her lips against his. “I accept.”

“Good.” He smiled. _Now my claim on her is as good as settled._ “Now... I believe we have a war to win.” He grabbed his weapons off the table and headed for the door. “Let us not keep Galmar waiting any longer than we already have.”

* * *

 _Stormblade. Kajsa Stormblade._ As she followed Ulfric out of the farmhouse, pushing through the crowd to take a place with Galmar at the head of the waiting mass of soldiers, she repeated her new title in her head with a sort of awe. _Kajsa – or Katarina – Stormblade._

 _It is a joining of our two names, intentionally or no. It is a reflection of what I have become: his most valued soldier, one almost equal to him in power._ She swallowed, not sure how to feel about this realization – _or his other gift to me._

Her fingers brushed over the hilt of Orthorien’s sword. _I name you Tahrovin – “Treachery,”_ she thought quietly, bitterly. _May you serve me in better endeavors than_ his.

The jarl began to speak. “This is it, men! It is time to make this city ours!”

A roar rose up from the soldiers, lifting their weapons into the air and shaking them fiercely. Smiling, Ulfric raised a hand for silence and they obeyed, listening in rapt attention as he continued to speak.

“We come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and the courage of our fellows. Those who have fallen. And those still bearing our colors.” He motioned ahead of him, at the masses of Stormcloaks ahead of him.

“On this day, our enemy will know the fullness of our determination, the true depth of our anger, and the exalted righteousness of our cause. The gods are watching. The spirits of our ancestors are stirring. And the men under suns yet to dawn will be transformed by what we do here today.” His powerful voice seemed to echo in the still.

“Fear neither pain, nor darkness. For Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands, and courage in their hearts!” He drew Queen Freydis’ sword, raising it high.

“We now fight our way to Castle Dour to cut the head off the Legion itself! And in that moment, the gods will look down and see Skyrim as she was meant to be – full of Nords who are mighty, powerful, and free!”

A tremendous battle cry rose up from the ranks, even louder than before. Galmar, standing at Ulfric’s side, joined in, and Kajsa felt her heart swell with an emotion she did not know. _This is it. This is the beginning of the end._

“Ready now!” the jarl roared. “Everyone, with me! For the sons and daughters of Skyrim!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	53. Solitude (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And I'm back home with my laptop!

With the rising sun clambering up over the tendrils of low-lying clouds, the sky over Solitude was painted crimson. It cast an eerie light on the grey stone surrounding them, throwing the stark, high walls of Castle Dour into grim shadow – and turned the blood pooling on the cobblestones black and gave the flames that leaped up in the streets new color.

Smoke billowed in the air and stung his eyes, making it hard for Ulfric to see the arched gateway ahead of him as he charged under it with Galmar close behind him. The battle had been an assault in itself on his senses: the jarring clash of blade against blade ringing within his ears, the battle cries and the barked orders and the groans of the dying, the thudding of feet against the ground as soldiers rushed forward from their positions. It sent blood pounding through his heart; whether from the rush brought on by fighting or the anticipation of the final showdown with Tullius, he did not know.

 _We are close. So very close._ He felt a savage grin spread across his face. _Tullius knows that – and he cannot do a damn thing about it._

Some dark shapes surged out of the gloom towards them, the steel of the Imperials’ swords catching the red light. The jarl brought up Queen Freydis’ sword in a swift arc, slashing one of them open; Galmar had lunged out and delivered a crushing blow to the other Imperial’s with the flat of his battleaxe. Both soldiers fell.

Ulfric had time enough for a hasty glance around the courtyard before warding off another legionnaire with a backhand swing of his war axe. The smoke from the fires down in the city had not yet fully shrouded the courtyard, giving it an oddly misty appearance. A handful of Imperials – _likely some of the few still surviving_ – had gathered in a tight circle, fighting off the horde of Stormcloaks surrounding and outnumbering them. Archers were rushing down from the wall walk of the fortress, drawing their swords and rushing in to assist their comrades.

Within the ring of blue and bronze that were the Stormcloaks, a lithe figure clad in ebony armor broke away from them and started running towards the archers – and all of a sudden, a familiar voice rang out around the stone courtyard:

“WULD – NA KEST!”

The Dragonborn’s body became nothing more than a shadowy blur streaking across the expanse. Startled, the Imperials recoiled from her as she rematerialized in their midst, but some were not fast enough. One fell to the cobblestones, clutching a gaping wound in his chest, and another was abruptly stabbed through the heart.

Kajsa tugged her Daedric sword from the soldier’s body, letting him crumple by her feet; the jarl could practically see her wolfish grin from where he was. “Who’s next?”

The legionnaires hesitated briefly, not entirely sure whether to fight or flee. Seizing his chance, Ulfric strode forward across the courtyard and let loose his own _thu’um_ :

“FUS – RO DAH!”

A pale blue ring of force erupted from his mouth, slamming into the cluster of Imperials. It was nowhere near as powerful as that of the Dragonborn’s, but it was enough to knock down those closest to him and stagger the rest.

“For Skyrim!” the jarl roared, readying his weapons as he started to run towards them.

The sole legate in their number brought up his shield to defend himself, and the other Imperials, struggling to right themselves, followed suit – just in time to block a hail of blows from Ulfric and Kajsa, and not long after, Galmar. The soldiers attempted to wield their own swords, to fight back against the vicious onslaught, but the fight was over almost before it had even begun. Whether by decapitation by battleaxe or stabbing by sword or dagger, the legionnaires’ bodies lay motionless on the cobblestones soon enough.

The jarl shot a glance over at the Dragonborn. Some of her braids were coming undone in wispy strands around her face, and there were some spatters of blood on her cheeks in addition to the red war paint, but her eyes were glittering with the thrill of battle.

“Took you long enough to make it to Castle Dour,” she admonished lightly. “The other unit and I were here ages ago.”

“We didn’t feel like getting burnt to a crisp, so we decided an alternate route would be best,” retorted Galmar. “Any Imperials still left?”

Kajsa glanced over her shoulder; following her gaze, Ulfric saw that the other band of Stormcloaks had finished off the few surviving Imperials. She turned her head back coolly. “I suppose that answers your question.”

The housecarl smiled grimly. “Then there’s only Tullius – wherever in Oblivion _he’s_ at.”

“In Castle Dour, most likely,” the Dragonborn pointed out, jerking her head towards the lone door at the base of one of the square stone towers.

“Let’s not waste any time, then.” Sheathing Queen Freydis’ sword, but keeping his war axe out just in case, the jarl strode to the door and tried the handle. Finding it locked, he sighed with frustration and stepped back, preparing to unleash his _thu’um_ again.

“Allow me.” Lifting one fur-booted foot, Galmar viciously kicked the door just below the handle. The hinges gave way and the wood buckled forward as the door flew open, propelled by the force of his foot.

The general hefted his battleaxe off his shoulder and admired his handiwork. “By Talos, I’ve been wanting to do _that_ for a while.”

Kajsa laughed, flexing her wrists and spinning her blades around in twin indolent arcs. “It lacks in subtlety, but I’ll admit that it looked very satisfying.”

“Enough talk,” Ulfric cut in, suddenly growing impatient. _To engage in idle banter when the end is this close –_ “Let us find Tullius and end this.”

* * *

Kajsa stepped inside first, her eyes adjusting quickly to the low light of the entrance hall. The interior of Castle Dour reflected the exterior: cold stone, sharp angles, silently fluttering red-and-black banners on shadowed walls that seemed to stretch up forever. This was a place devoted to war and strategy and conquest, and from the moment she stepped in, she almost felt as though the fortress itself was steeling itself against them. _If this place was alive, it would uproot itself and fight alongside the Imperials._

“Galmar,” she heard the jarl murmur from behind her, “put something in front of the door.”

The grating sound of some heavy piece of furniture, and then the slight squeak of wood on stone as it stopped. “Already done. Nobody gets in and –”

Frowning, she held up a hand to silence Galmar. He paused mid-sentence, allowing the raised voices issuing from the doorway ahead of them to be more easily heard.

Kajsa tilted her head forward, motioning for them to follow her. She crept forward as quietly as she could, sheathing Tahrovin and tucking Mehrunes’ Razor against her arm as she went, but she froze at the threshold. Ulfric and Galmar stopped beside her.

“Solitude is lost, Legate.” For a moment, she almost didn’t recognize General Tullius’s voice; weary and defeated, it was a far cry from the gruff, commanding voice that she’d heard before. “There is nothing more we can do.”

“We can still fight,” the measured, authoritative tones of Legate Rikke insisted.

“Did you not hear me, Legate?” Tullius snapped. “The Legion has been routed. We are the only commanding officers left, and all the men that we would have been commanding are either dead or close to death. There is nothing left for us but surrender.”

“But you will not be given mercy,” Rikke said quietly. “How is that a better option?”

Silently, Ulfric stepped into the war room of Castle Dour with his war axe drawn and Galmar at his heels. Kajsa followed them, but kept behind them a ways.

The war room had not changed much the last time she’d been here, to win Tullius’ support for the peace talks: low ceilings, sturdy oak table piled with charts and missives, devoid of any comforts save for a small bench against one wall. The general was seated on this bench, his head in his hands with the legate standing before him, but both turned their heads to see the Stormcloaks standing there.

As the jarl took a step forward, his eyes fixed on Tullius, Legate Rikke spoke up. “Ulfric. Stop.” There was a pleading in her voice uncharacteristic of her.

“Stop what?” Ulfric demanded. “Taking Skyrim back from those who would leave her to rot?”

“You’re wrong, Ulfric. We _need_ the Empire. Without it, Skyrim will assuredly fall to the Dominion.”

“You were there, Rikke,” Galmar cut in. “ _You_ saw it. The day the Empire signed that damn treaty was the day the Empire died.”

“The Empire is weak – obsolete,” the jarl argued. “Look how far we have come, and with so little. When we are done rooting out Imperial influence here at home, then we _will_ take our war to the Aldmeri Dominion.” His hand tightened threateningly around his war axe.

“You’re a damn fool.” Rikke’s voice was completely flat. “You all are.”

“Stand aside, Rikke,” the housecarl barked. “We’ve come for the general.”

“He has given up.” The legate placed herself between Ulfric and Tullius, her stance challenging. “But I have not.”

“Rikke.” The jarl’s voice was unexpectedly quiet. “ _Go._ You’re free to leave.”

The Dragonborn’s gaze shifted to Ulfric and found a sort of tenderness in his eyes – but he was looking at Rikke. _Even though they fight for different causes... they will always be comrades._

“I’m also free to stay and fight for what I believe in.” Legate Rikke drew her sword, holding it in front of her with both hands.

“You are also free to die for it.” Ulfric’s voice held no emotion now, save for resignation.

“This is what you want?” Rikke spat. “Shield brothers and sisters killing each other? Families torn apart? _This_ is the Skyrim you want?”

“Dammit, Rikke!” Galmar growled, brandishing his battleaxe. “Stand aside!”

The legate smiled sadly at him. “I’m sorry, Galmar. But that’s not the Skyrim I want to live in.”

“ _Rikke._ ” Now desperation was creeping into the jarl’s words. “You do not have to do this.”

“But you have left me no choice.” Legate Rikke let out a long, slow breath, lifting her blade. “Talos preserve us. Talos – preserve _me_.”

Kajsa acted first. With one step, she was standing toe-to-toe with the other woman, and she seized one of Rikke’s wrists, wrenching it sharply as she elbowed the legate in the stomach with the pommel of Mehrunes’ Razor. As the sword clattered uselessly to the floor, Rikke doubled over for only a moment before righting herself quickly – but the Dragonborn had already pointed the dagger to her throat.

The legate did not attempt to fight back, merely meeting her eyes. “Dragonborn. I – I am sorry.”

“For yourself?” Kajsa asked, a trace of mocking in her voice.

Rikke shook her head slowly. “For you. For Ulfric. For Skyrim.” She sighed. “I wish that the circumstances that brought us all to this moment were not what they were. Perhaps... perhaps things would be different if everything was as simple as people made it out to be.” Her eyes were far-away, sorrowful. “If you had stood with the Empire, Dragonborn, perhaps there could have been a chance for peace after all.”

The Dragonborn was silent, unsure of how to respond.

“Go on.” Legate Rikke lifted her chin, baring her throat. “So many have already died in this war. What’s one more?”

Kajsa only hesitated for a moment before drawing a clean, deliberate red line across the woman’s neck with the tip of Mehrunes’ Razor. Her end was quick; with a last, strangled half-breath, Rikke collapsed to the stone floor, her eyes wide and clouded over with death.

Silence reigned in the chamber. Bending down on one knee, Galmar closed the legate’s eyes with the tips of his fingers, sorrow etched into his gruff face. “Always was a stubborn woman,” he murmured to himself. “Never backed down.”

Slowly, General Tullius stood, but he made no motion for his sword.

Ulfric drew Queen Freydis’ sword in an instant, pointing it at him. “This is the end for you, Tullius. Any final words before I send you to Oblivion?”

When the general responded, his voice was hoarse. “You realize that... that this is _exactly_ what they wanted.”

“What _who_ wanted?” the housecarl growled, clambering to his feet again.

“The Thalmor,” Tullius stated flatly. “They stirred up trouble here. Forced us to divert needed resources and throw away good soldiers quelling this rebellion.”

The jarl smiled coldly. “It is a little more than a ‘rebellion,’ do you not think?”

Galmar snorted.

“It’s always more complicated than black and white,” the general said quietly. “We’re not the villains, you know.”

Ulfric shrugged. “Maybe not. But you are certainly not the heroes.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But what does that make you?” Tullius’s eyes were steely.

“You just said it yourself,” the housecarl growled. “It makes us right.”

The general was silent again. Then: “And if I surrender?”

“The Empire _I_ remember never surrendered,” the jarl countered.

“That Empire is dead – and so are you.” Stepping forward, Galmar grabbed Tullius by the shoulder, forcing him down onto his knees. The housecarl glanced back at Ulfric impatiently. “Just kill him and be done with it.”

“Come, Galmar,” Ulfric chided. “Where is your sense of the dramatic moment?”

Galmar rolled his eyes. “By the gods! If it’s a good ending to some damn story you’re after, have Red-Blade do it!”

The jarl looked questioningly at Kajsa. She shook her head. _It’s you who has the personal vendetta against Tullius, not I._

“Very well.” Raising Queen Freydis’ sword, Ulfric lunged forward, bringing it down on Tullius’s bent neck. With a sickening sound and a spurt of blood, the general’s head fell from his shoulders and rolled over the floor as the rest of him collapsed.

The war room was still once more: the three of them rooted in place, standing over the bodies at their feet. No voices, no movement... just emptiness.

Suddenly, the jarl began to laugh, a booming, triumphant sound that issued from deep within him. “By Talos... it is done. It is over.” Sheathing his bloodstained weapons, he strode over to Galmar, clapping him on the back with vigor. “We have lived to see this new dawn, old friend. Can you believe it?”

The housecarl smiled. “Aye. It’s been damn long in coming, but it’s finally arrived.”

Ulfric returned his gesture. “And I could not hope to share it with two more loyal friends and fighters.” His gaze settled on the Dragonborn. Despite herself, she felt the smile curve her lips as well.

Seeing this, Galmar cleared his throat meaningfully. “No speech?”

“Well, I suppose _some_ kind of speech is in order,” the jarl conceded, albeit grudgingly. “Go gather the men in the courtyard outside.”

“And what about Elisif?” the housecarl growled. “Should I be tracking her down as well?”

“I redirected some Stormcloaks in the direction of the Blue Palace,” Kajsa put in. “With any luck, they should be heading back here by now.”

Galmar nodded curtly, striding out towards the door. “Don’t take too long, you two. Try to keep your priorities straight.” He vanished under the archway. From beyond the doorway to the war room, there was another grating of wood against stone, and then the housecarl’s heavy footsteps stomping outside.

As soon as he’d left, Ulfric closed the distance between them, enfolding her in his arms and pulling her close. She wrapped one arm around him, sheathing Mehrunes’ Razor before placing her other hand on his shoulder, leaning her head against his chest. There were no words; they had no need of them – just a tacit affirmation that they were both still here, that this was really happening at this moment.

The jarl spoke first. “Galmar was right. The men _will_ expect a speech.” He brushed one steel-gauntleted hand over her cheek. “Will you stand by my side? I wish to honor you: as Dragonborn and as the truest of Stormcloaks.”

She nodded quietly.

His hand found its way to her hair, running over the braids plaited tightly against her skull. “You were right: you _are_ dangerous.” He laughed again. “The way you fight... it’s as though you’re a dancer of sorts. Graceful, yet deadly.”

Kajsa smiled wryly. “I seem to recall you saying once that I dance like I’m fighting for my life. So I suppose it only makes sense that I fight like I dance.”

His hand running down to her chin and tilting it up, Ulfric kissed her. “The only difference would be that I’d much rather dance with you than fight you.” He released her, his eyes alight with amusement. “Come. Galmar and the others are expecting a speech. We will have time for dancing later.”

* * *

The amount of soldiers crowded into the courtyard was nothing short of astonishing. Male and female, young and old, some injured and others not, they stood before him in a sea of blue and bronze and steel. Upon emerging from Castle Dour, the Dragonborn right behind him, they broke out into cheers and shouts of victory. Ulfric smiled, half to himself and half for the crowd.

A few steps ahead of him, Galmar’s loud voice carried over the hubbub with ease. “And now, I present to you Ulfric Stormcloak: hero and liberator of the people, and rightful High King of Skyrim!” He stepped to the side, allowing the jarl to take his spot.

Ulfric raised a hand and the soldiers quieted, ready and eager to hear what he had to say. He hesitated to gather his words before he began.

“I am indeed Ulfric Stormcloak, and at my side –” he gestured to Kajsa, standing at his side “– the woman that we and the world know as Dragonborn. And, indeed, there are many who would call us heroes.” _Even though some of us do not claim to be as such..._

“But it is you – _all_ of you – who are the true heroes!” Now, he swept his hand to indicate the captive audience before him. “It was _you_ who fought a dying Empire who had sunk its claws into our land, trying to drag us down with it. It was _you_ who fought the Thalmor and their puppets who would have us deny our gods and our heritage. It was _you_ who fought your kin who did not understand our cause, who were not willing to pay the price of our freedom. But more than that... it was _you_ who fought for Skyrim – for our right to fight our own battles – to return to our glory and traditions – to determine our own future!”

The roar that resulted from his words was deafening, and once again, the jarl found himself signaling for quiet.

“And... and it is for these reasons that I cannot accept the mantle of High King. Not until,” he continued to the suddenly stunned crowd, “the Moot declares that the title should adorn my shoulders will I accept it.”

Pulled out of their shock and back into ebullience, the Stormcloaks cheered once again, shaking their weapons towards the sky in jubilation. Scanning the crowd, Ulfric noticed only one person who was not joining in. Flanked by a small band of soldiers, Elisif stood ramrod straight, hands clenched against her skirts.

“Lady Elisif.” The jarl slowly sauntered towards her, hands laced behind his back. “How kind of you to join us.”

The Jarl of Solitude gave him a strained, forced smile. “Your company is as delightful as always, Jarl Stormcloak.”

“As is yours.” He stopped only a few feet before her and paused. “Though you will not have to endure mine much longer.” Ulfric made a motion to the Stormcloaks beside her and two of them seized her arms.

“Jarl Stormcloak –” Elisif’s eyes were wide with fear and her voice was hushed. “What – what will happen to me?”

He considered her question for a moment and then leaned in. “Nothing... if you do not go against me.” With an equally tight smile, he turned around and walked back a few paces, then turned to face and address the waiting crowd again.

“I expect that you all will wish to know what is to be done with the Lady Elisif.” Murmurs of agreement. “Well, that depends on Lady Elisif herself.” The jarl held out his hand, pointing directly at the young noblewoman.

“Will she put aside her personal hatred for me – and her misplaced love for the Emperor and his coin – so that the suffering of our people will end? Will she acknowledge that it is we Nords and not a government half a continent away who will determine Skyrim’s future?” He met her eyes, challenging her. “And will she swear fealty to me, so all may know that we are at peace and a new day has dawned?”

Silence fell over the courtyard. Elisif swallowed and licked her lips. “I – I do!”

Ulfric smiled. _Checkmate._ “Then it is settled.” He lowered his hand, lacing his fingers behind his back again. “The Jarl will continue to rule Solitude and I will garrison armies here to ward off Imperial attempts to reclaim the city. And in due time, the Moot will meet, and settle the claim to High King once and for all.

“There is much to do, and I need every able-bodied man and woman committed to rebuilding Skyrim. A great darkness is growing, and soon we will be called to fight it: on these shores or abroad. The Aldmeri Dominion may have defeated the Empire – but it has not defeated Skyrim!”

The Stormcloaks shouted and cheered once more, applauding for all they were worth; this time, Elisif reluctantly clapped, her face like stone. Still smiling, the jarl raised his hand again in a wave to the crowd.

Finally, the soldiers began to disperse, in groups as small as two or as large as eight or ten: talking, laughing, singing. The Stormcloaks clustered around the Jarl of Solitude tightened their grip on her and began to march her away towards the far archway of Castle Dour.

Ulfric turned to Galmar. “Did that satisfy?”

The housecarl shrugged. “Not so bad. Nice touch with the whole High King thing.”

“Thank you. I thought so as well.” He began to walk, ambling across the courtyard.

“You do realize it’s a foregone conclusion,” Galmar warned, keeping pace with him. “The Imperials aren’t going to leave us alone. They still have camps in the hills and men scattered through the holds, and they’ll continue to strike out at us, whenever and wherever they can.”

“I do not fear the remnants of the Legion – in time, they will give up and go home to Cyrodiil. What _I_ fear,” the jarl said grimly, “is that the Thalmor will see our victory here and turn greater attention to our shores.”

“Then we have to be ready to face them.” Kajsa walked alongside him, her eyes dark and grim. “We must be.”

“Aye,” the housecarl agreed gruffly. “And may the gods preserve us all.”

Ulfric nodded, looking up towards the sky. The redness of the sunrise had been replaced with a pale pink as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. _A new day is dawning... and it rises over a changed Skyrim._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	54. Where Loyalties Lie

She sat in front of her vanity mirror, cold and immovable as stone: mouth tight, eyes hard, shoulders squared to keep herself from shaking. Her stillness gave the impression of a woman with her emotions under control and hidden away, but with every short, fluttering breath in her lungs and the rapid patter of her heart, she knew this was not the case.

Behind her, she felt the brush beginning to drag through her hair with slow, methodical strokes. “If I may say so, milady,” came the hesitant voice of Erdi, “you look very fine tonight.”

Far beyond her, she heard the rustling of the clean sheets as they were spread over the bed and the brisk footsteps pause. “I agree,” Una’s voice said, in a tone of forced pleasantry that was far removed from her usual brusque one. “Your dress from Radiant Raiment is tailored quite masterfully. I could not have done a better job myself.”

“Well, it would hardly do for me to go before Jarl Stormcloak and his fellow barbarians looking like I belonged on a farm,” Elisif snapped, whipping her head around to glare at the both of them. “I would advise that you desist from insipid platitudes and return to work.”

There was a stunned silence as the two maids glanced at each other, Erdi looking decidedly nervous and Una looking a touch ashamed. The jarl instantly regretted raising her voice to the both of them. _It’s not their fault. None of this is their fault._

“Forgive me,” Elisif said finally, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “I – I should not have said that.”

“It is within your right to, milady,” Una said, her jaw set.

“No, but – but...” The jarl sighed, bringing a hand up to her temples. “I realize that you’re both trying very hard to soothe my nerves, but... I would prefer silence, if you do not mind.”

“Not at all, milady,” Erdi assured her quickly, lifting the displaced hair brush and returning to the task at hand. “I will hold my tongue.”

Una nodded stiffly, turning back to laying out the fresh sheets over the bed.

Elisif shifted her gaze back to the mirror, swallowing hard. _I can dress myself up, arrange my hair fetchingly, offer polite conversation... but courtly manners have left me unable to cope with fear._

Ever since Solitude was taken by the Stormcloaks and Tullius killed, Ulfric Stormcloak had ordered her to be confined to her chambers in the Blue Palace; with her door locked and two Stormcloaks keeping watch outside, she was rendered a prisoner in her own home. Alone and isolated from the outside world, her cloistered emotions – her anger, her fear, her hate – were all she had left... and now they had strengthened even further.

Erdi and Una, the maids, were the only ones besides her who had entered her chambers for the whole of the day. Her heart had gladdened somewhat to see them at first, but then it sank anew when Erdi shyly confessed why they’d been sent – and who had sent them.

“Jarl Stormcloak wishes you to attend a – a function, he said,” the young woman had said. “He thought you might need our help to groom yourself for the occasion.”

Elisif had no trouble translating the seemingly pleasant message to herself. Jarl Stormcloak was ordering her to attend whatever it was, whether she liked it or not. The fact that he wanted her to look presentable only heightened her worry.

_If he planned to kill me, he could have done it already,_ she thought with unease. _But to have me appear in public with him... that can only mean one thing..._ Her quailing heart seemed to constrict, as though it were being clutched by an invisible fist. _He cannot mean for me to –_

There was a knock at the door.

Her head whipped around for an instant, startled at the noise, but she instantly turned back to the mirror for fear of who might come over the threshold. _Oh, gods,_ please _don’t let it be him... I’m not sure if I can handle it –_

Una paused in the middle of replacing a pillowcase and hurried over to the double doors, opening one of them a crack. “Yes?”

“Is the Lady Elisif ready?” There was no mistaking his deep, foreboding voice.

The maid glanced back at her questioningly, a trace of concern in her eyes. The jarl swallowed hard and mouthed: _Not yet_.

Una nodded and turned her head again to give her answer. “Not yet, Milord.”

“Hurry her up, then,” Ulfric snapped curtly. “I am not a patient man.”

Closing the door hastily, the maid quickly returned to adjusting the bedding. The jarl realized that she’d been holding her breath the entire time and let it out in one rush of air.

“Thank you, Una,” she whispered.

Una smiled slightly, but it faded fast. “You must be ready, milady, and soon. Otherwise...” Her voice trailed off and her customary grim face returned.

“Don’t worry, milady,” Erdi reassured her, putting down the brush on the vanity and picking up the delicate circlet that rested beside it. “Everything will be fine. You’re much too important for Jarl Ulfric to risk hurting.”

“So was my husband.” A wretched Elisif stared into the mirror, hollowly assessing her reflection. In the back of her mind, a voice commented that she still looked lovely despite her woes, but she ignored it in her misery.

“Oh – I –” the maid stammered. “I’m terribly sorry, milady. I didn’t mean –”

The jarl shook her head, cutting Erdi off. “Please... don’t apologize. I know what you were trying to say.” _It’s not her fault. None of this is._

_It’s all_ him.

“Very well, milady,” the maid said in relief, finally lowering the circlet and placing it delicately onto her mistress’s head. “Shall I –” her voice wavered “– c-call him in?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Elisif stood, smoothing her gown as she did so. “You may,” she said finally, hoping she sounded braver than she actually felt.

Erdi curtseyed and then hastened to the door, opening it slightly so she could speak out into the hallway. “Jarl Stormcloak?”

“What now?” The jarl did indeed sound considerably more impatient now.

“Jarl Elisif is ready to receive you.” Her voice was small and timid, a sharp contrast to the contrite tones it held a moment ago.

“Good. You and the other maid may return to your duties elsewhere.”

The maid’s eyes flickered back to Elisif for an instant. Heart hammering in her chest with renewed fear, the jarl nodded slowly. Erdi returned the gesture with a sympathetic, yet sad smile before opening the door fully, and then she left, followed by Una, carrying a stack of unwashed sheets.

Letting out a quietly shuddering breath, Elisif attempted to demurely folded her hands before her, but her hands wound themselves together, clenching tightly. She settled for lacing her fingers behind her back, trying to steady herself. _Be strong, Elisif. You cannot, under_ any _circumstances, let him see your fear. You cannot._

She had no more opportunities to think before he entered the room, his heavy footfalls seeming to shake the very walls around them. No longer in the steel plate armor he’d been wearing during the battle, he was back in his rich blue-and-silver robes trimmed with luxurious fur, his golden hair braided in the front and pulled back from his face. Unlike her, he wore no crown, but everything about him evoked power and authority – and arrogance.

“Lady Elisif.” He bowed his head slightly, never taking his eyes off her. “Still as fair as ever, I see.”

It was all the jarl could do not to flinch; she remembered this same greeting from when they’d last encountered one another... when Torygg was last alive. She forced a smile. “Jarl Stormcloak. You – you are looking well.”

Ulfric’s mouth curled in a dark smirk. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

His eyebrows rose. “What else? To swear your oath of fealty to me.”

The sickened feeling that had been lurking within her resurfaced. _The oath. Of course... I had nearly forgotten._ “And – and what does the oath entail?”

Now the look on his face went from gloating to irritated. “Your unswerving loyalty to myself alone.”

“But what will be said?” she persisted, swallowing her unease. “What _exactly_ will I be swearing to? I wish to know, Jarl Stormcloak!”

“You are not in a position to be making demands, _Lady_ Elisif.” His voice became a threatening growl. “You will either take the oath or you will not. There is no middle ground.”

“But I –” Her voice failed her.

The Jarl of Windhelm took a step forward, and it took all her willpower to stand her ground. “Here is all that you need to know. You are swearing your loyalty because you want your title back – and because if you do not, you will never know freedom again. Do I make myself clear?”

Shaken, she nodded mutely.

“Good.” He turned around and began to stride back towards the door. Stopping just at the threshold, he glanced back at her. “Will you be joining me, Lady Elisif?”

She took a stilted, hesitant step towards him, her eyes lowered. “With your leave, Jarl Stormcloak, I would ask a question of you.”

“Make it quick, then.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Elisif took in another shuddering breath. _I have to ask. I must know if this is the punishment he has planned for me._ “Do you – do you intend to w-wed me?”

His answer shocked her: Ulfric threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Me, marrying _you_ – a weak little Imperial puppet?”

Weak-kneed with overwhelming relief, the jarl was too overcome to say a word.

His laughter died down to a low chuckle as his eyes raked over her. “You may be deserving of your title of ‘the Fair,’ but women like you who are merely pretty do not hold my interest for long. Besides,” he added after a moment, “there is another who will be High Queen of Skyrim, but it will hardly be you.”

“Who, then?” Morbid curiosity took over. _Whoever she is, I pity her. I could not imagine a more terrible fate._

He gave her that dark smirk again, the one that suggested that she was as ignorant as they come. “That is none of your concern.” The Jarl of Windhelm held out his hand. “Come, Lady Elisif. You have an oath to take.”

* * *

However old it was, the throne room had always been one of Elisif’s favorite places in the Blue Palace: serene in its elegance and authority, a place where justice and mercy would always win out. But tonight, the hall with its cracked plaster walls and cold tile floors and motionless, frayed banners seemed haunted and uninviting. _As if it no longer belongs to me._

Having refused to take Ulfric’s hand, she followed behind him with slow steps and a heavy heart as he climbed the dais to the throne of red wood, _her_ throne. She was unsurprised to see people gathered on either side of the room – _witnesses, to ensure that I uphold what I am about to swear to._

She scanned the faces, finding many that she recognized from her own court: Falk, Sybille, Bolgeir. Even Thanes Bryling and Erikur were there, the latter looking decidedly cross. Galmar Stone-Fist stood forbiddingly by the throne, with a young blond Stormcloak officer that she did not recognize by his side. The Dragonborn, clad in a silk dress the color of the Eastmarch banners, stood just behind the throne, her dark eyes flitting around the room.

Elisif stared at her for a moment, a lump in her throat. _One of my own thanes in the company of my enemy... how did this come to pass?_

The Jarl of Windhelm settled himself on the throne, propping up one elbow on the armrest. “Lady Elisif. Have you come before me this night to swear your oath of fealty?” He said the formal words neutrally enough, but a mocking glint was in his eye.

She straightened up a tiny bit more, lifting her chin slightly. “I am.”

“Then kneel.”

Stiffly, the jarl knelt on the tile, spreading her skirts around her.

Spurred by a nod from Ulfric, Galmar stepped forward. “Repeat after me: I do solemnly swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and future High King of Skyrim.”

Elisif swallowed hard. “I do solemnly swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and future High King of Skyrim.” Her voice was quiet, but she was glad that it did not shake or waver. _He will latch on to my every weakness and exploit it if I let him._

“I swear to uphold my duties as Jarl to Haafingar and its people,” the Stormcloak general continued, “and to stand beside the Jarl in both war and peace as a friend and ally, to aid him in his every endeavor by any means possible.”

“I swear to uphold my duties as Jarl to Haafingar and its people, and to stand beside the Jarl in both war and peace as a friend and ally, to aid him in his every endeavor by any means possible.” The words filled her with a strange kind of dread. _He may not be wedding me now, but he is certainly ensuring that the possibility exists._

“As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond: even to my lord as to the land itself.” Galmar paused for a moment to take in a breath before booming out the last sentence. “All hail Ulfric Stormcloak, and long may he reign!”

“As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond: even to my lord as to the land itself.” Her mouth felt as dry as sand. _I can never withdraw my words now. I am a prisoner, just as surely as if I refused to take the oath._ “All hail Ulfric Stormcloak... and long may he reign.”

The Jarl of Windhelm smiled triumphantly, knowing that he’d won. “Then rise, Elisif the Fair, as Jarl of Solitude once more.”

She stood slowly, letting her skirts settle into place and then curtseying with all of the grace and manners she had left to muster. “I thank you for your graciousness, Jarl Stormcloak.”

His smile grew a little wider, a little crueler, and the message was clear as day to her: _And I can rescind that generosity just as quickly._

“You may take your leave now, _Jarl_ Elisif.” Ulfric stood and descended the dais. “Galmar, Ralof, Stormblade: come with me. The men are waiting for us to join their celebration.”

The general and the officer both nodded and fell into step beside him, and the Dragonborn silently followed the three of them as well.

_Stormblade._ Elisif blinked in surprise. She recognized the title as a traditional title of respect generally bestowed by the Stormcloak line to those they deemed loyal – _or,_ she remembered suddenly, _worthy to be part of the line itself._

_Women like you who are merely pretty do not hold my interest for long._ Ulfric’s earlier words echoed in her mind. _There is another who will be High Queen of Skyrim, but it will hardly be you..._

The realization dawned on her immediately. _Ulfric hopes to wed the Dragonborn._ She was suddenly filled with alarm. _And I do not dare to think of what might happen to Skyrim then –_

As she passed by, Elisif touched the woman on the shoulder, stirred by a sudden urgency. “Thane Red-Blade, may I – may I speak with you?” She glanced back hastily over her shoulder, giving her court a meaningful look. “Privately.”

Taking her hint, the remaining witnesses left the throne room with varying degrees of haste, Erikur glaring at her as he left. Soon enough, the only ones left in the hall were herself and the Dragonborn.

Kajsa crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head to one side as if sizing her up. “What do you wish to ask me, Jarl Elisif?”

“Why?” the Jarl of Solitude whispered pleadingly. “Why did you side with _him_?”

A pause. “My reasons are not for you to know.” The thane turned away, signifying that the conversation was at an end.

“Do you love him?”

The Dragonborn paused mid-step. Very slowly, she looked over her shoulder back at the jarl. “Yes. I do care for him.”

“How?” Elisif asked in dismay. “How could you love a man as – as _contemptible_ as he?”

Kajsa turned around fully again, her eyes dark with an emotion that the jarl had no name for. “Do not think that I am not blind to his faults, Jarl Elisif. I know very well that he and I are both supremely flawed.” Her lips pursed. “I suppose one would assume that it gives us common ground, and that is as close to the truth as anything.”

“But don’t you see that he’s using you?” the Jarl of Solitude cried out, frustrated.

The thane smiled coldly, condescendingly, but her eyes flickered with uncertainty.

Elisif pressed her advantage. “He knows that the fact that you, the _Dragonborn_ , are allied with him makes him look powerful. And he knows that were you to stand by his side as High Queen, no one would dispute his hold over Skyrim then.”

“What are you saying?” the Dragonborn demanded. “Ulfric, marrying _me_? That is –” She fell silent, and the jarl knew that she knew it was entirely possible.

“I do not expect you to take advice from me,” the Jarl of Solitude said finally, quietly, “but – but just be careful of Jarl Stormcloak. He does not love anything except his own name; he uses people to gain an advantage, and then he discards them once he is finished. I just – I just think it would be a shame if that happened to one such as you.”

Kajsa was still for a moment, the expression on her face unreadable. Then: “Your concern is touching, _Jarl_ Elisif, but I am perfectly capable of dealing with men like Ulfric Stormcloak.” With a swirl of her skirts, she turned and strode off, vanishing down the stairs.

Elisif watched her leave, feeling a sort of hopelessness within her. _That’s what we all think at first... but I was proven wrong in the end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	55. She Who Would Be Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Arms," Christina Perri](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeW0Sl0tNS8)

Save for the gleaming of the dying coals in the hearth that dispersed a faint glow around the room, the bedchamber was cloaked in a quiet, still darkness: cold enough to call for warmth, yet warm and comforting in its own wordless way. It held all of the elements of the previous two nights – the fire, the dark, the passions, the triumphs – yet this was something different.

Under the soft shield of sheets and blankets, they lay entwined. Bodies pressed against each other, limbs tangled, they did not move nor speak. Exhausted and exhilarated, they were simply content to hold each other close and share in the thrill of feeling another heart beating alongside theirs, of having knowledge of another’s body, of knowing that they were _alive_.

Ulfric finally found the breath to speak, his voice lower and hoarser than usual. “Gods... I needed that.”

Raising her head from his bare chest and propping up her chin on her hands, Kajsa smiled at him, almost coy. “From the way you were behaving around me all evening, I could have guessed at your intentions. Like I’ve mentioned before, you're hardly subtle.”

“Really?” he asked lightly, dragging a hand through her hair; the braids that had adorned it earlier had come loose long ago – mostly his fault – and her hair now framed her face in wavy, uneven strands. “How so?”

“Well, let me think,” she mused, idly tracing circles underneath his throat with the tip of one finger. “Throughout the celebration, you couldn’t take your eyes off me.”

“The dress had something to do with that,” he confided, smiling and glancing over towards the chair in the far corner of the room. Discarded clothing was scattered all around it, and the gown of Eastmarch blue had fallen over one of the arms. “Like _I_ have mentioned before, it looks stunning on you.”

“And when you danced with me –” her finger trailed over his collarbone “– you whispered an invitation in my ear.” The Dragonborn’s breath was hot on his skin. “‘Let us retire to the Emperor’s Tower –’”

“‘– and we will continue our celebration there,’” the jarl finished, his hand sliding to the underside of her jaw. “Seeing as we were both well on our way to becoming incredibly drunk, we probably could not have stayed with the other officers much longer _without_ making fools of ourselves anyhow.”

“Mmm.” She pressed her lips to his chest in a brief kiss. “We _did_ stay overlong.”

Ulfric laughed quietly. “ _Too_ long, I would say.”

His recollection of the night’s events came back to him with leisure, tinted with the blue of the evening. Walking through Solitude’s quiet streets with his arm wrapped around her waist – reaching the doorway of the Emperor’s Tower and almost immediately pushing her up against the stone wall to give her a fierce kiss – both of them fumbling with the doorknob and the fastenings on their clothing as they struggled to get inside, away from any prying eyes... the disjointed memories finally fit together, making some sort of sense. It seemed strange to him that he could remember the rough, raised edges of the scars on her skin, her ragged breathing and her soft moans, the burning heat of her around him – everything about their lovemaking – yet not recall anything before that. But he remembered what came _after_ they had finally found their way to the bedchamber, and _that_ was what counted.

This time, _these_ times tonight, were very different from their first time together. Their reservations, their hesitancy: all of it had waned from their first time, wariness fading and comfort growing with every kiss, every brush of their fingers, every time he moved in her. They had pushed their boundaries tonight, testing to see how far either of them could go – that much rougher, that much slower, that much _more_ – before the longing grew to be too much for the both of them and they lost control of themselves, going far beyond the fear that had once gripped them. And now, lying with her sprawled over him, he felt sated and content for the first time in a long time.

The ghosts of the past, the specter of a future death – these things were not as important of concerns as they had been before. Tonight had been for the living.

Kajsa brought her leg up a little higher, her hips briefly shifting low against his stomach. When she spoke again, her voice was no more than a murmur. “At least we had some peace tonight before taking on all the work ahead of us.”

Ulfric nodded. “I may not be High King yet, but that does not mean I will not be taking on the duties of one.” His hand slipped from her jaw to cup the back of her neck. “There is much to do. The new jarls need help building armies and enforcing their right to rule. There is always the possibility that Empire may try to reclaim Skyrim, and we need to prepare ourselves for that: just in case. Though the biggest threat, of course,” he continued after a long pause, “is the elves.”

Almost immediately, he felt her tense under his touch at the allusion to the Thalmor. “You know they will not be content to loll about in Alinor for long,” he said quietly. “We must be ready to fight them.”

“I have always been ready to fight them.” There was an edge to her voice.

 _I know. I have been as well._ “Not so much Skyrim.” The jarl sighed. “But perhaps there will be a calm before the next storm, one long enough for us to rebuild Skyrim into the land it once was. Strong. Self-reliant. The center of mankind.”

“But you’re not counting on it,” she said wryly, sliding off him halfway and curling up against his side, her head nestled under his arm.

“No. I am not.” He lifted his other arm from his side, draping it over her and pulling her close to him; as satisfying as sex with her was, he was always content just to have her near, to feel her chest rise and fall against his. “Progress takes time, time that Skyrim may not have. But when the Moot meets, they can give her a High King – and I pray to Talos that _that_ will make some kind of difference.”

A snort. “Why bother with the Moot? You hold all of Skyrim, and the vast majority of its jarls support you; there is no chance that they will _not_ name you High King. There is no need to fret over solidifying your claim.”

“Maybe not within these lands, but outside Skyrim, I am seen as nothing more than a usurper. If I wait for the throne to be given to me instead of seizing it immediately, it reflects well – or at the very least, _better_ – upon my character.”

The Dragonborn laughed, resting her palm on his chest and splaying out her fingers over it. “But you still wish you could just take the throne without this pretense of approval.”

Ulfric smiled without cheer. _Yes. I do._ “If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, politics is _not_ one of the things that war makes less complicated. I may dislike the Moot on principle, but its judgment is accepted without question. And if I know anything about the Nords of Skyrim, they will follow tradition.”

She shrugged in wordless agreement, her shoulder digging into his side for a moment. “Do you know when the Moot will convene?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “Not for two or three weeks, at the very least. But –” he paused, weighing his words carefully “– I would very much like for you to be in attendance.”

Kajsa tilted her head back to peer at him, the soft light of the dying fire painting tattoos on her exposed skin. “What for?”

“To lend your support.”

She raised herself up on one elbow, the blankets falling away from her upper body. “Political or personal support?” Her tone was light, but her eyes belied an unusual wariness.

“I was thinking a little of both,” the jarl murmured, lifting his head up from the pillows to kiss her as the hand on her waist trailed upwards to her breast, “if you do not object.”

The Dragonborn broke off the kiss, her hand moving from his chest to his wrist. “I do not. I was merely wondering if I would have some time before then.”

He nearly frowned at her sudden standoffishness, but resolved not to dwell on it for now. “Time for what?”

“For going to Solstheim and hunting down whoever this... _Miraak_ is.”

 _Now_ Ulfric frowned, but more in remembrance than anything else. _I had nearly forgotten about that._ “Ah, yes. How long do you anticipate this task taking you?”

She shrugged again to the best of her ability. “I’m not entirely sure. I’ll need to return to Windhelm, prepare for the journey, and make the crossing: that’ll be about three or four days in total, maybe more. As for finding Miraak... _that_ could take much longer.”

“If I push for the Moot in a month, would that give you enough time?”

“Perhaps,” she mused, loosening his grip from his wrist and allowing his hand to fall. “And if not, I can be back for it. Where do you anticipate the Moot being held?”

“The location has not been decided on yet. Thankfully, the other jarls get to bicker over that when we coordinate the whole damn thing.”

Kajsa smiled fleetingly. “I can figure out where to go when the time comes. The Moot would be a hard thing to miss.” She fell silent, her eyes falling from his face as her fingers scrunched up into a fist on top of his chest and then loosened again.

His frown faded, but his unease remained. _Something is not right._ “Kajsa.”

The Dragonborn looked up, her eyes dark and flat.

“What is troubling you?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “Tell me, Ulfric: what is the _real_ reason for your wanting me at the Moot? Is it merely to have the legendary Dragonborn stand by your side, bearing your titles and honorifics, so you can prove your power to the jarls?” Her words turned bitter. “Such a display would reflect well upon your character.”

 _Of_ course _it is that_. _No matter how close we become, she will always detest the prospect of being used as a means to an end._ “You can think of it that way if you choose,” the jarl replied coolly, “but I do not solely see it as such. Yes, I had hoped to have you support me at the Moot, but there is another reason that I wished for you to attend.”

“Then what is it?” she spat.

Looking her in the eye, Ulfric grasped her hand and held it tight, choosing his next words with the utmost care. “I had hoped to announce to the Moot that in choosing me as High King, they would also be giving Skyrim a High Queen.”

Silence followed his words. As he watched, the resentment and anger slowly drained from her face, shock and disbelief supplanting them. Her emotions were laid bare for him to see: on her face, in the part of her lips and the wideness of her eyes; and in her body, where her fist had clenched anew around his hand until the knuckles whitened.

He’d always thought of her as being good at hiding what she felt, but his revelation had struck her to the core – stunned her enough to make her completely transparent.

“You... you want to marry _me?_ ” Kajsa whispered, her voice hoarse and strained.

The jarl nodded, squeezing her hand. “Very much so.”

Silent, she looked away and sat up fully, drawing her knees protectively up to her chest and wrapping one arm around her legs. Feeling as though she did not wish him to be there, Ulfric let go of her hand, but it stayed where it was.

“I thought you would be happier upon receiving this news,” he said, finding his voice unexpectedly low.

“I – I _am_ happy.” Her tone sounded anything but that.

The jarl sighed and sat up as well, allowing the blankets to pool in his lap. “Do not lie to me, Kajsa.” _Not even to spare my pain._

“I am not lying,” the Dragonborn insisted, lifting her hand and running it back through her messy hair wearily. “It’s just that... I’m not quite sure of how to react. I –” Her voice broke off and she turned her head to look at him again, her eyes dark. “I don’t know how I feel about this.”

“Do you not love me?” His voice came out sharper, more accusing than he’d wanted it to.

Her gaze turned hard. “You know I do.”

“Then why do you hesitate?” Ulfric snapped. “Do you dislike the implications of being wed to me?” He gripped her hand again, half in frustration and half in desperation. “You would be _queen,_ Kajsa. All we are, all we have done – you know as well as I do that we are formidable, you and I. Were Skyrim to be united under us, two living legends unmatched in power... imagine what we could accomplish together.”

He met her eyes in his earnestness. “We can make Skyrim strong again. We can challenge the Dominion and the Empire. Perhaps we can even build a dynasty – an _empire –_ of our own.” His voice, formerly rising with ardor, fell again to a whisper. “This century, this _age_ is ours... but only if we seize it now.”

Kajsa’s eyes wavered with new-found uncertainty, caught between his words and her emotions.

“You would stand at my side as my equal,” he continued, sensing he was close to swaying her. “The title of High Queen would not be an empty one. You would have power of your own, and I would not dream of having it any other way.”

“Do you mean that?” Her voice was quiet, but there was the faintest trace of hope in it.

The jarl smiled slightly. “You possess power greater than – or at the very least, equal to – my own. To deny you anything would be futile.”

She returned the gesture, but her smile was more forced than anything else. “So this marriage is based on power.”

“Yes, but I see no reason why it cannot have anything to do with love. What we have now – _that_ does not have to change. I do not wish that to change.” Ulfric raised his other hand to her scarred cheek, running his finger down the longest one. “Why do you doubt me, Kajsa?”

The Dragonborn closed her eyes briefly, tears shimmering on her lashes. “I do not doubt you. The only one I doubt is myself.”

Before he could say anything, she abruptly pulled away from him. Stretching out her legs, she swung them over the side of the bed and stood, the whip scars on her back catching the dying light of the fire as her body straightened.

“Where are you going?” He tried to keep his voice as even as possible.

Skirting the edge of the bed, Kajsa paused before the chair around which their clothes had been scattered, but she did not face him. “I’m leaving for Windhelm tonight.” Her voice was slow and measured, as though she were trying to keep herself together. “I’ll go to Solstheim and track down Miraak. Then – then I’ll come back for the Moot.”

“Shall I take that as acceptance, then?”

She finally turned around, uncertainty flashing across her pained face. As if becoming suddenly aware of her own nudity, as if realizing her own vulnerable state, she crossed her arms tightly and pressed her legs a little closer together.

“Ulfric, I –” Her voice cracked, but she soldiered on regardless. “I know this much: I _do_ want this. I _do_ want to be with you. But – but at the same time, I’m uncertain of so many things.

“You’ve had time to think about all of this, to contemplate what’s between us, to know in your heart where you stand. I’ve never had that time; I thought I didn’t need it as much as I actually do. But... I was wrong.”

The Dragonborn took a step towards the bed, seating herself on the edge directly next to him. He could see now what was in her dark eyes: a quiet resolution.

“I need time to think this decision over, Ulfric. I need time to reflect, and maybe this sojourn to Solstheim will give me what I need. I – I just need you to wait for me... one last time.” Her expression was pleading now. “Please.”

 _Have I not waited for you long enough?_ the jarl wanted to say. _Have I not always waited on your decisions time and time again? I have been waiting for you – for your allegiance, for your love – for over a year, and I am weary of it!_

Instead, he tightened his jaw and nodded, his silence guarding her from the bitterness of his unspoken words.

Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Ulfric looked away from her briefly, swallowing. “Will you stay here a little longer?” he asked quietly. “Or will you leave?”

Drawing her legs up onto the bed, Kajsa knelt on the blankets and straddled his lap, placing both of her hands on his shoulders. “I can stay,” she murmured, kissing him.

Despite himself, he could feel some of his frustration draining away. “Good.”

Her hands slipped around him, pressing against his back and tangling in his hair. He gripped her hips and her waist, running his hands over her warm skin as he kissed her urgently: lips, cheeks, neck, breasts. She moaned, shuddering against him as she laid claim to his mouth again, and he responded in kind with a kiss of his own.

Neither yielded nor relented – only pushed on. Forward was the only way they wanted to go now.

Winding their arms around the other, drawing them close, they drowned in each other’s touch and found peace in the darkness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	56. The Choice (Part I)

“Jarl Ulfric!” Smiling broadly, Vignar Grey-Mane arose from his throne and descended to greet the other jarl, his housecarl close behind him. “I was not expecting you to arrive tonight!”

Ulfric returned the gesture, grasping the other’s hand in a firm handshake. “We made good time from Solitude, better than anticipated. After all, we could hardly miss the Moot.”

“Hardly,” the older jarl laughed. “And a great honor it is to host both the Moot and Ulfric Stormcloak in this hall.” He clapped the jarl of Windhelm on the back, motioning towards the stairs leading to the upper floors of Dragonsreach. “I was just about to sit down for dinner, but I am more than happy to have you and your housecarl join me.”

“There’s a relief,” Galmar grumbled. “We haven’t stopped since Rorikstead, and by now, I could eat a horse.”

Ulfric smiled to himself before addressing the jarl of Whiterun again. “Have any of the other jarls arrived?”

It was Vignar’s housecarl, a pale, yet lovely woman in leather armor, who answered him. “Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath and Jarl Skald of Dawnstar have arrived, and Jarl Laila of Riften, Jarl Korir of Winterhold, and Jarl Sorli of Morthal have sent word that they are on their way.”

“Thank you, Olfina,” Vignar said graciously, turning back to the younger jarl. “We may have to wait a little longer on Solitude and Markarth, but they will come soon enough.”

The jarl of Windhelm nodded grimly. “They will have to. They agreed to this, same as the others.” Unbidden, the image of Elisif’s listless eyes upon swearing her oath of fealty resurfaced in his mind; he shook it away. “Surely they realize the importance of Skyrim needing a High King?” He could not keep the frustration from his tone.

“We all do, Ulfric,” the older jarl replied quietly. “And you are the best man to take on that responsibility. After all you have done for Skyrim, all the battles you have fought to win our freedom... your victory is all but certain.” He trailed off, sobering further. “Speaking of which, there is something I must ask you about.”

“Go on.”

Vignar frowned. “Where is Thane Red-Blade? Last I heard, she was at your side during Solitude, but I have heard nothing since. She has not been felled in battle, has she?”

“Oh, she survived Solitude,” Galmar cut in. “Can’t say the same for the legionnaires who stood in her way.”

The jarl of Whiterun smiled. “I am pleased to hear that she is alive. She is a fine warrior, and it gives me pride to have her as a thane of Whiterun. But I had thought that the Dragonborn would be attending the Moot as well.” He glanced at Ulfric questioningly. “Surely the Dragonborn should be present at such a monumental occasion?”

The younger jarl sighed heavily. It had been nearly a month ago that he’d last spoken to Kajsa, that he’d woken the morning after to find himself in an empty bed in the Emperor’s Tower. He could only assume that the Dragonborn had left for Windhelm – and from there, Solstheim – but he had not heard a word from her since then. In truth, he did not know whether she was dead or alive, let alone if she’d succeeded in hunting down Miraak.

He’d tried not to think about her, instead throwing himself into work: starting reconstruction of some of the more battered portions of Solitude, forcing the remnants of the Legion hiding in wilderness camps and forts out of Skyrim, arranging the Moot with the other jarls. But in the dark of his chambers, when he lay sleepless and alone in his bed, his mind always wandered back when he’d last seen her.

_Where is she now? What is she doing; what new enemies are she fighting? And – and what has she decided?_

It was always the last question that haunted him the most: whether or not she would marry him, whether or not she would be lost to him forever. _I have already lost her once. I do not wish to lose her again, but neither can I make her stay if she does not wish to..._

 _She always said she would return,_ he thought, not for the first time, _and she said that she was willing to fight for us to stay together. I can only hope that all she said is true..._ He shook his head, as if to dismiss his thoughts in order to gather the words for a response.

“The Dragonborn is... _occupied_ currently,” he finally said to Vignar, “but I have no doubt that she will be present at the Moot.” _Sooner or later._

The older jarl nodded thoughtfully, but his forehead was still creased. “But where is she? Still in Solitude? Back in Windhelm?”

Not willing to say another word on the subject, Ulfric strode past Vignar to ascend the stairs. “Away.”

* * *

Neither of Tamriel’s twin moons graced the sky that night, but even if they had chances to be there, it was unlikely that they could have been seen; Windhelm was being buffeted by a particularly fierce snowstorm, and the streets and alleys were covered in thick, wet, heavy snow. It gleamed dimly in the darkness, providing the only light that night, and a very poor light at that – but fortunately, Karliah was no stranger to the dark.

Shrouded in a fur-lined robe with a hood pulled low over her face, the Nightingale made her way through the narrow streets of Valunstrad, hurrying as fast as she dared to without falling down the ice-slicked steps. She knew all too well that there was no chance the guards would see her – her power as Nocturnal’s Agent of Stealth was serving her well tonight – but she felt it prudent not to tarry; there was no telling what the Windhelm guards might do to a lone Dunmer wandering the wealthiest district of the city at night.

Glancing out from underneath her hood at the looming shapes of the manors surrounding her, she spotted the familiar stone-and-bronze gate. Hurrying towards it, she crouched down and checked for the tell-tale shadowmark. There were two: the circle within the diamond that represented the Guild and the entwined circles over the diamond that signaled that the owner had the Guild’s protection.

Karliah let out a sigh of relief and stood, striding to the door of the manor. Lifting one gloved hand, she instinctively looked behind her to check for guards or anyone who might have followed her before knocking on the door. Letting her hand drop and crossing her arms tightly to keep herself from shivering from the cold, she waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened a crack, and a quiet, weary voice issued from within. “Karliah, is that you?”

Relief flooded through the Dunmer. “Yes, Guildmaster.”

Kajsa opened the front door of Hjerim fully, standing aside to let her pass. “Come in. It’s much warmer inside.”

The Nightingale obeyed, stepping over the threshold and into the main hall of the manor. The spacious, low-ceilinged room looked much the same as when she’d last seen it – _save for Kajsa not being here,_ she thought, removing her robe and draping it over a nearby bench. She’d worn her old, patched Thieves Guild leathers underneath, but she’d correctly predicted that the thin, light material alone would not do much to shield her from the Eastmarch chill.

Behind her, the Dragonborn shut the door and locked it securely before turning around to face her guest. She smiled, but the gesture was surprisingly strained. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you.” Karliah motioned towards her. “You’re looking well.”

It was true. The Kajsa that she had last seen when the coalition was just returning from the Embassy was thin and haggard and haunted. The woman standing before her looked like the Kajsa she always pictured in her mind’s eye when she thought of her – slight and lean, dark eyes against pale scars and tanned skin – but just a touch healthier, with color in her cheeks and luster in her hair. Yet there was a strange tautness about her: a stiffness in her movements and a reserved, terse air around her that brought back the Nightingale’s initial unease.

_What is going on?_

“I hadn’t expected you to be in Windhelm,” the Dunmer said, trying to start a conversation. “I’d thought you to be still in Solitude with the Stormcloaks.”

“I had to attend to some personal business,” Kajsa replied, her voice clipped.

“May I ask what it was?”

The Dragonborn shrugged. “The usual. Assassination attempts, dangerous ruins, Daedric Princes, and saving the world... again.” She grimaced. “It seems like Solstheim has enough problems to cripple any other country in Tamriel.”

“Solstheim?” Karliah tried to recall the last time she’d been to the island, but the memories were hazy at best. _Probably not for a quarter of a century, at the very least..._ “How is it over there?”

Kajsa’s mouth twisted wryly. “Cold and dry and altogether inhospitable. Yet, like all deadly places, it manages to have a certain beauty to it.”

The Nightingale smiled. “That sounds accurate.” A thousand more questions ran through her mind and she could not decide on a single one. _I know not where to begin. I do not know what is going on..._

In the silence, the Dragonborn spoke. “We’ll need to consider sending thieves to Solstheim to get the Guild there running again. The only one there is Glover Mallory, and he’s much too preoccupied with smithing to run any jobs.”

“Delvin’s brother?” Karliah laughed fondly. “I recall him. How is he?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Kajsa said. “I helped him with a few issues, and in return, he gave me a place to stay while I was in Raven Rock. It was a fair trade.” Having no more to say, she fell silent again, crossing over to the table. Sitting down on one of the benches, she propped up her elbows on the table.

The Dunmer sat down across from her, removing her gloves and laying them beside her robe. She hesitated for a moment, but steeled herself to ask the question. “Kajsa... is something the matter?”

Chewing her lower lip, the Dragonborn lowered her eyes to the grain of the wood. “I suppose you could say that,” she said quietly. “What would give you that impression?”

 _Everything,_ Karliah wanted to say. _Your manner, your caginess, your apprehension... everything about this._ Instead, she looked straight at the other thief.

“Two nights ago, I received a letter from you written in the Falmer language. It was addressed specifically to _me_ – not the Guild, not Brynjolf, but for my eyes only. It told me to come to Windhelm as quickly as I could. That alone tells me that something’s not right.”

Kajsa smiled to herself, almost as if she was not fully listening. “Brynjolf. He’s my Second, my oldest living friend... but he wouldn’t understand this.” Her smile fading, she lifted her eyes. “But I know you do.”

“Understand what –?” The Nightingale stopped short, a sudden thought coming to her. “Is this... is this about Ulfric?”

Slowly, the Dragonborn nodded, a melancholy look in her eyes.

Karliah sighed softly.“Did you end up talking to him like I suggested?”

“Yes.” Her voice was not much more than a whisper. “I did. And –”

“And?” the Dunmer prompted gently.

Kajsa’s eyes were hollow as she met the other’s gaze. “Karliah, he wants to marry me. He wants me to be High Queen.”

 _That_ took Karliah by surprise. “Truly?”

The Dragonborn nodded again, more sharply this time.

The Nightingale mused for a moment. _From what I’ve seen, they both care very deeply about the other. Why is she so unhappy at this news?_ “And you’re not pleased about this.”

Sighing, Kajsa pushed back her hair from her forehead. “I don’t know what to think. There’s just – just –” she struggled to express herself “– too _much_ on my mind, and... I don’t know how to deal with all of this.” She buried her face in her hands, the words pouring out of her now. “I don’t know what to do, Karliah. I don’t know how to tell him that – that –”

“You can tell me,” Karliah said reassuringly. “That’s why I’m here.” She paused for a moment, scrutinizing the Dragonborn’s face. The tenseness had faded from the Guildmaster’s body, but her eyes were filled with a storm of emotions: fear, helplessness, despair.

For the first time since receiving the letter, the Dunmer felt afraid. _If_ she _is scared..._ “Kajsa,” she pleaded, “if something’s wrong, say it now.”

Kajsa took in a deep, shuddering breath. “Karliah –” Her lips tightened, and a tear ran down her face. “I’m pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And the nasty cliffhangers return!
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	57. The Choice (Part II)

“How far along are you?“ Karliah asked softly.

“About four weeks.” Hunching her shoulders as though she was trying to curl in on herself, Kajsa tightly crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve known for only one of those.”

The Dunmer bit her lip, a less palatable, yet necessary question coming to mind. “Is Jarl Ulfric the father?”

“Who else could it be?” the Dragonborn said bitterly. “It’s not like I’ve shared anyone else’s bed in the past month.”

“I had to ask,” the Nightingale responded, relieved. “I must confess, I did not know you and he had gotten to that point in your relationship.”

Kajsa sighed harshly, emptiness in her eyes. “We slept together before Solitude, and then again the night before I left for Solstheim. There was plenty of opportunity.”

Karliah frowned at her comrade’s tone. “You don’t sound very pleased about this fact as well.”

The Dragonborn lowered her eyes briefly, the single tear at the corner of her eye falling onto the table. “I’m not sure what to think or how to feel anymore, Karliah. All of this – Ulfric, Miraak, the child... it’s too much.”

“Then we’ll address these matters one at a time,” the Dunmer said firmly, but gently.

Kajsa nodded dully.

The Nightingale folded her hands on the table, searching for her first question. _Let’s start with the immediate concerns, then._ “Are you going to keep the child?”

“Yes.” Some fleeting emotion flashed across her eyes; whether it was determination or dejection, the other could not tell. “I’ve sacrificed too much to get rid of it now.”

Karliah made a mental note to further delve into that comment later before continuing. “Then you’re going to tell Jarl Ulfric?”

“I don’t know,” the Dragonborn confessed.

“Why not?” the Dunmer asked. “I think he would be quite happy to hear that he’s gained a child, especially if its mother is you.”

“Gained an heir born of the Dragonborn, you mean.” Kajsa’s eyes were steely now. “Gained a major political advantage.”

Startled at her sudden vehemence, the Nightingale was at a loss for words for a moment. “You speak as though Jarl Ulfric does not care about you, but... you _do_ know that he does, very much so.”

The Dragonborn laughed without humor. “Do I, Karliah? Do I know that? Sometimes, it’s hard to say.”

Karliah leaned forward, her expression grave. “Exactly _what_ happened between you and Jarl Ulfric before you left for Solstheim?”

Kajsa sobered, her expression slipping into melancholy remembrance. “First, he asked me to support him at the Moot. Then he asked me to marry him. And I told him that – that I needed some time to think about it.” She swallowed. “That’s all.”

“Nothing more?” the Dunmer prompted.

Casting her eyes down again, the Dragonborn was silent. Then: “We had a fight. I questioned him on his motives for wanting me at the Moot, and that’s when he said he wanted to marry me. I... I didn’t know what to say, and he was... _displeased_ with my indecision.” Hesitant, she glanced up at Karliah again.

“Go on,” the Nightingale said.

“He started trying to convince me that this would be a good thing for Skyrim, the _best_ thing, in fact. He said that I would have power of my own as High Queen, that I would stand by his side as his equal.” She paused, her face hopeless again. “That’s when I told him I needed time to think.”

“And? How did he react?”

Kajsa shrugged stiffly. “I don’t know.”

Karliah mused on what she’d learned for a moment. _There has either been a failure on one – or both – of their parts to communicate effectively... or I have proven myself a poor judge of character once more._ A memory of Mercer flashed through her mind, and her heart sank. _I pray that that is not the case..._

“I know this may be a little forward of me,” she said carefully, trying to shake herself of the unwelcome image, “but have you made a decision – or at the very least, given thought to a decision of some kind?”

“The latter,” the Dragonborn said flatly.

The Dunmer nodded thoughtfully. “Since you’ve already determined that you’re keeping the child, it seems to me that you have two options to decide between at this point: marrying Jarl Ulfric... or not.”

“But there’s only one choice that I _can_ make,” Kajsa retorted, standing up suddenly. Arms still crossed, she began to pace over the floor. “I have to marry Ulfric.”

“‘Have to’?” the Nightingale repeated in disbelief. “But don’t you _want_ to marry him?”

The Dragonborn whirled around, her lips tight with anger and frustration. “Karliah, ever since I returned to Skyrim – maybe even before then – my life has been driven by fate and prophecy: I _had_ to face Alduin, I _had_ to face Miraak, I _had_ to fulfill my destiny as the Dragonborn. And I fought that fate for as long as I could, but when I could do that no longer, I just waited for the day that fate would finally release me from its grip so I could do what I wanted with my life.” All of the anger went out of her as her face fell. “But now that it has... I have nothing left for me.

“Alduin and Miraak are defeated. The Guild is back on its feet, the Brotherhood is getting to that point, and the Companions are apparently doing just fine without me. The war is over, and the Imperials and the Thalmor are gone from Skyrim. And – and Orthorien is dead, and my vengeance is complete. Everything I’ve ever wanted or had to do, I have done.

“And yet, my options are more limited than ever before. I cannot leave Skyrim without fear, not as long as the Dominion holds sway. I can never go back to being just another thief or just another sellsword; in fact, I can never be anonymous again. I can never simply disappear and hope that no one will ever come looking for me. I am trapped in the public eye.

“ _Karliah –_ ” Her voice broke and returned as a weakly pleading cry. “Karliah, don’t you see? I am _caged._ A prisoner of fate and circumstance and my own decisions.”

“Is that how you see marriage to Ulfric?” Karliah asked softly. “As a prison?”

“It seems that way to me,” Kajsa snapped, but her voice was too choked and ragged for the rancor to come through. “Think about it. I will be giving up my freedom to be bound to him for the rest of my life. I will have to take on the mantle of High Queen and all of the responsibilities that come with it. I am not a natural-born leader, let alone of high birth and blood. As High Queen, I – I would be absolutely miserable... in both fulfilling my duties _and_ how I would feel.

“But... it’s what I have to do.” She collapsed back into her seat again, her shoulders slumped. “Marriage to Ulfric is the only route left for me, but I don’t think I have the strength or conviction to do it.” She turned eyes bloodshot with suppressed tears onto the Dunmer. “Karliah, don't mistake what I'm saying for hatred. I _don’t_ want to lose him. But at the same time... now that I can seize my future for myself, I am terrified of getting what I’ve always wanted. And... I’m afraid of attaching myself to someone else, someone who may not care for me in the same way.”

Karliah found herself regarding the other thief with pity. _Oh, Kajsa. You poor, poor girl._ “What do you mean by ‘someone else’?”

The Dragonborn swallowed. “I – I was going to get married to someone else. A long time ago. But... I made a terrible mistake and he died because of it.”

A memory of her beloved Gallus surfaced, and the Nightingale’s heart grew heavy again. “I know,” she said quietly. “I know what you mean.”

Kajsa nodded. “I knew you would. That – that’s why I needed to speak with you.” She reached across the table and squeezed the other’s hand. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Karliah. I value your advice, and right now, I need it more than ever.”

The Dunmer thought for a moment, but it did not take long for her to decide her position. _I pray that she takes this well..._ “My advice is this: once again, you need to speak with Jarl Ulfric. Just hear me out,” she added hastily, seeing the Dragonborn’s mouth open to retort. “This is between you and Jarl Ulfric. I know that it’s difficult for you to open up to others, and I understand and respect that, but this is truly something that you need to speak with him about. Any doubts or fears that you have absolutely need to be addressed with him: about marriage or the child or anything else.”

Kajsa’s face was frozen with uncertainty. “Are you suggesting that I marry him?”

“Not exactly.” The Nightingale took in a deep breath, and her fingers wound around the other’s hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “But yes, that _is_ my opinion.

“Kajsa, I will speak plainly with you. You are a woman of great personal strength and power, and those have enabled you to face unimaginable horrors alone and live to see another day.” She chose her next words carefully, watching the Dragonborn’s face. “Sometimes, I think that you are so used to being alone that you forget what it is like to have others standing at your side.”

After what seemed like an eternity, the other nodded, her lips tightening in pain.

Encouraged, Karliah continued. “But now, you have Jarl Ulfric. I did not have to spend much time in his company in order to realize that he cares for you as much as you care for him. He is there for you, and, should you marry him, he _will_ be there for you in whatever new battles you face: the Empire, the Dominion, raising your child.” She smiled fondly. “We _all_ will be. The Thieves Guild will always have your back, and I have no doubt that the Brotherhood and the Companions will do the same.” Her expression softened a little. “You don’t have to face _anything_ alone, Kajsa. Not anymore.”

Kajsa returned the smile, albeit a bit strained.

The Dunmer looked her straight in the eyes. “Tell me, Kajsa: do you want this?”

* * *

“The audacity of that woman!” Galmar grumbled, stomping along the corridor along the upper floor of Dragonsreach. “Sworn to support you, and yet every time she opens her mouth – nothing but shit and slander!”

Ulfric sighed heavily. “I do not know exactly why you seem so surprised about this.”

“Oh, I’m _not_ surprised,” his housecarl corrected him. “Elisif may seem all charm and smiles, but I swear to Talos, she’s picked up a few things from Tullius on political manipulation. And now here she is, at the Moot, pissing on her oath of fealty!”

The jarl chuckled wearily. “She does not pose a serious threat, but yes, we should keep her in check. If she persists in her... _allegations,_ I shall have to reconsider letting her keep the jarldom of Solitude.”

“Solitude.” The general scowled. “A damned hotbed of Imperial sympathizers and boot-lickers and more trouble than it’s worth. When you become High King, I vote you move the capital to Windhelm.”

That elicited a real laugh from Ulfric. “That will be first, yes.” He stopped at the door of his chambers, brought out his key, and unlocked it. “Until tomorrow, old friend. Until the vote.”

“Aye.” Galmar grinned savagely. “I’ll leave you to compose your acceptance speech, then.” He continued on down the hall to the next door on the right.

Shaking his head and smiling to himself, the jarl slipped inside his rooms and closed the door behind him, locking it securely. _Even in the house of a friend, I must always be wary of enemies._ He sighed to himself. After today, he was inclined to agree with Galmar: Elisif was indeed proving to be trouble.

Lost in his thoughts, he shrugged his robe off his shoulders and threw it behind him in the direction of the bed. He briefly checked behind him to make sure that the garment had, in fact, reached its target – and the key dropped from his hand in surprise.

In the near-darkness of the evening-filled room, sitting on the chair by the bed with his robe in one of her hands, was someone he knew very well.

“Hello, Ulfric,” Kajsa said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... another cliffhanger! (I'm sorry, guys; I really am.)
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	58. The Choice (Part III)

Ulfric found himself rendered completely speechless. After a month filled with bitterness and reminiscing and hoping and thoughts the future, a month that seemed to stretch on for a year, a month of _her_ – here she was: alive and well, sitting on the chair by his bedside, as though the night before she left had never happened.

His first thought was: _She has returned... as she has always promised._

And his second was: _Has she come to a decision?_ Despite himself, cold anxiety plummeted through him and pooled in his stomach. _After all, there_ is _a reason that she is here – and whatever it is, it cannot wait until morning._

He opted for a relieved smile that hid his unease. “Kajsa. It is good to see you.”

She simply nodded. “And you.”

The jarl nearly frowned at the terse response, but instead gestured towards the unopened bottle of wine and the empty goblets sitting on the nearby table. “Would you care for a drink?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it again. “No, but thank you.”

Restlessness building, Ulfric reached for the bottle and unstopped it, pouring himself some in one of the goblets anyway. He felt her eyes on him as he took the first sip, a sip that turned into a larger gulp, but he did not meet them.

Finally, the jarl forced himself to turn around to get a good look at her. She wore her usual traveling clothes: a loose shirt and a pair of belted breeches with worn leather boots, with her fur-lined cloak draped over one arm of the chair she sat in. Her hair looked a little bit longer than when he’d last seen her, but she’d kept it trimmed and pulled back into her customary braids, away from her face. All in all, she looked healthy and well – _but tense. Very tense,_ he noted uneasily.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, eager to avoid the silence.

“Not long.” She uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again, shifting in her seat. “I rode out from Windhelm this morning and I arrived in Whiterun tonight.”

“I trust you did not have trouble finding the Moot?” he inquired, smiling despite himself.

“You can thank Jorleif for that,” the Dragonborn said wryly. “He’d sent several notices and reminders to Hjerim while I was away.”

The jarl laughed quietly, then sobered, remembering. “And what of Solstheim? Did you succeed in your search?”

The flicker of light in her eyes faded, and she looked away, swallowing hard. “I did.”

That gave him pause for a moment, but he soldiered on. “And this ‘Miraak’?” He pulled out a chair from the table and settled himself into it. “Who was he?”

Kajsa raised her head again, her eyes dark. “The First Dragonborn.”

Ulfric nearly choked on his wine. Hastily putting the goblet down to avoid spilling it, he stared at her in disbelief. “But how? How is that possible?” _He must have lived hundreds, if not thousands of years ago..._ “Would he not be –”

“– dead?” she finished bitterly. “Apparently, there are ways of cheating death when the Daedric Princes get involved.”

The jarl scrutinized her for a long moment, looking past her appearance and taking in the tension and stiffness in her body and the foreboding, fearful look in her eyes. He saw no new scars on her skin, but somehow, he sensed that they were on her soul instead.

 _There is more than just my proposal on her mind... whatever happened on Solstheim still troubles her greatly._ Their conversation on the afterlife crept back into his mind. _And if the Daedra have anything to do with her acting this way..._

He folded his hands together. “Start from the beginning. Who exactly was Miraak and why was he still alive?”

The Dragonborn licked her dry lips nervously. “This is what I know: Miraak used to be a dragon priest on Solstheim, back when the dragons still reigned over Tamriel. But at some point, he sought out the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora in order to gain forbidden knowledge – and he found it.” Her expression was grim. “Hermaeus Mora taught him how to bend minds to his will... the minds of dragons. Using this knowledge and his powers as Dragonborn, he rebelled against them and killed quite a few of them, and for that, the dragons destroyed his temple.

“At some point, another Dragon Priest – Vahlok the Jailer, as I found out after the fact – discovered Miraak’s rebellion and engaged him in battle. Apparently, it’s said that this battle was so fierce, it tore Solstheim away from the mainland of Skyrim and sent it floating into the Ghost Sea.” She snorted, but her levity was soon gone. “But at any rate, Hermaeus Mora whisked Miraak into his realm of Apocrypha before Vahlok could kill him.”

Ulfric frowned. “Then why did he return?”

Kajsa laughed without a trace of humor. “‘Return’ isn’t quite the right word for it. He was _planning_ to return in order to take over all of Tamriel – starting with his old domain of Solstheim – but I stopped him before that could happen.” She sighed almost imperceptibly, her eyes shifting downwards. “It – it came at a heavy price.”

“How?” he asked quietly, afraid to hear what would come next.

Fingers winding around each other, the Dragonborn kept her eyes down. When her voice next came, it was lower and hoarser than he’d ever heard it before.

“Hermaeus Mora’s artifacts are... _unlike_ those of the other Daedric Princes. They are not weapons or armor, but books: tomes of secret and forbidden knowledge. The Oghma Infinium is the most well-known, but it is not the most powerful of Hermaeus Mora’s artifacts. The Black Books are.” She swallowed. “To defeat Miraak, I – I had to be equal in power to him. And – and to do that – I had to learn what he learned.”

The jarl had a foreboding feeling about where this was going. “These Black Books... you read them?” _Further involvement with the Daedra... I imagine she was loathe to take that route._

“Only one. I found two during my time on Solstheim, but I read only one. It – it taught me much, but... it was not enough.” _Now_ she raised her eyes, and they were hollow and haunted. “I had to make a bargain with Hermaeus Mora to gain the rest.”

Ulfric decided not to ask about the terms. “What knowledge did you gain?”

“A Shout. Three Words of Power to bend wills to my command.” She smiled without cheer. “After Hermaeus Mora taught me the final Word, I used one of the Black Books to gain entry to his realm of Apocrypha... and I sought out Miraak.”

“And you fought him,” he finished.

The Dragonborn nodded, lowering her eyes again. “He was... formidable. Even with my newfound power, it was one of the most challenging fights I’ve ever been in.” Her lips tightened. “I – I nearly died.”

His head jerked up, and he looked at her in alarm. “How?”

“I had beaten Miraak down, but – but he used Unrelenting Force on me with the last of his strength.” She was murmuring, almost as if she was talking to herself instead of to him. “I was knocked back and – and I felt every single one of my bones bend and twist with the power of it. If I had not been Dragonborn... I don’t think I could have withstood it.

“As I lay on the ground, unable to move or fight, he came to me. He gloated over me and taunted me, asking me how I thought it would feel to have my soul ripped out from me – to have it become his possession. He – he gave me a chance to beg for my life.” Her face hardened, and her fingers curled around her waist, arms shielding her body. “I did not give him that satisfaction.”

“Then how did you escape?”

She smiled wryly, eyes still dark. “Hermaeus Mora was looking out for his Champion that day. _He_ killed Miraak and claimed his soul in Oblivion, and then he returned me to Tamriel.”

Ulfric frowned. _I will never understand the Daedra, not in a thousand years._ “How long were you recovering from your injuries?” As far as he could tell, she looked healthy.

“Not long at all,” she admitted. “After leaving Apocrypha, I felt sore all over and tired, but... not injured.” She shrugged. “Apparently, death and maiming are only permanent in Oblivion if the Princes want you to stay that way.”

“When did you arrive back in Windhelm, then?” he asked abruptly.

Kajsa’s expression was guarded. “A little under a week ago.”

“Then why did you not come to Whiterun sooner?” the jarl demanded.

The Dragonborn sighed heavily, lifting one hand to run it back through her disheveled hair. “I – I needed some time to – to sort some things out.”

“‘Some time’?” he repeated, frustration mounting. “So a month was not enough for you?”

She stood suddenly, her spine stiff and straight and her eyes flashing. “No,” she said, her voice biting. “It was _not_ enough. Enough for dealing with Miraak, but – but not with anything else.”

“Like my proposal?” he said flatly.

Pain flitted across Kajsa’s face. “No,” she responded quietly. “That was on my mind for the whole time I was away... more so in recent days.”

Something about the way she answered drained his anger from him. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself. “How so?”

“I – I found out something. Something that – that changes everything.”

Without thinking about it, he stepped forward, taking the hand that was falling from her hair and holding it tight. “What is it?” _Tell me. Do not spare my feelings._

Slowly, the Dragonborn lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye, and he plainly saw a vulnerability that he’d never seen in her before. Despite himself, the anxiety stirred in his stomach again, turning it over with unease.

“Ulfric, I –” She swallowed hard. “I’m pregnant. I’m carrying your child.”

* * *

Silence followed her words almost immediately; it was so quiet in the dim chamber, Kajsa could have sworn she’d heard her heart pounding. Instinctively, her eyes fell from his, saving her from seeing what lay in them.

He let go of her hand, his fingers tracing over her still-flat stomach. “Truly?” he breathed. “And you know this for certain?”

Forcing herself to look up again, she nodded, not trusting her voice to come out.

Ulfric laughed in wonder, joy in his eyes. “I – Kajsa, this is – this is wonderful news.” Just as quickly as it had come, his joviality faded as his expression became troubled anew. “Yet... I cannot help but wonder how this has impacted your decision...” he mused.

The Dragonborn bit her lip, unsure of what to say.

Turning away, the jarl sat on the edge of the bed, placing both hands on his knees. “When did you find out?”

“A week ago.” She took a deep, steadying breath. _I must tell him. I must tell him the full story._ “From Miraak.”

He glanced at her sharply, eyebrows drawing low over his eyes.

“It was when I was knocked down.” The memory lingered long after the battle on the summit, and her rush of words brought it back with vivid clarity. “As he was... _gloating,_ he said it was a shame that I had to die so he could be free. He said that – that had things been different, we – we could have used our power to defy the Daedra and conquer all of Nirn together, two of the _dovah sos_ bringing the dragons and the Empire and the Dominion to heel. And...” She found her voice fading to a whisper. “He said that my son would be lord of it all.”

Ulfric’s face grew even more grim and drawn. “But?”

Kajsa let out all her breath with one shuddering exhalation, feeling her shoulders slump. “But he said that now, neither of us could be allowed to live.” She swallowed. “He – he said that our linked souls would be more than enough to bring him to full power: the soul of a Dragonborn... and that of an innocent.”

The jarl’s hands clenched into fists. “What kind of sick _bastard_ would harm an unborn child?” he snarled.

“One who was motivated by a lust for power,” she murmured, bringing a hand up to her amulet of Talos to idly rub it. “As much as I wish I could say that I couldn’t fathom it... I know what it’s like to do anything to gain something you want.”

Ulfric nodded in agreement and then frowned, new alarm flashing across his face. “Kajsa, the child – _our_ child... do you know if he is unharmed? Considering all you have been doing this past month...” His voice trailed off.

She sighed. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“How do you know that?” he demanded, but there was no anger in his eyes: only fear.

The Dragonborn continued to fidget with her necklace. “After Hermaeus Mora killed Miraak, I had an opportunity to speak with him. I – I asked him that same question.”

“And?” the jarl prompted.

“He said that I was never in any danger, that being his Champion meant that I was under his protection. He said that he planned to ensure that Miraak died and that I lived to continue to serve him.” She smiled slightly. “I know better than to blindly trust in the Princes, least of all the Daedric Prince of fate, but at least his... _morals_ are easy to comprehend.”

“That is hardly reassuring,” Ulfric mused.

“I know,” she confessed, her hand slipping from the worn wood of the Amulet of Talos to rest on her stomach. “Hermaeus Mora will not let me go so easily, but as long as he continues to keep his word, I will not encounter him again.”

The jarl’s frown deepened in confusion and suspicion.

“Before I left Apocrypha, he said this to me,” she explained. “‘Consider yourself released from the bonds of fate for good, Dragonborn. You are free to walk the path you choose, but do not be unheeding of the world around you. Much of your story is yet unwritten, and it will be many, many years before it is finally complete. Take your leave, and know that my fellow Princes and I will be watching.’”

She fell silent again, her fingers splaying out over her stomach. Even now, the words made her feel both relieved and uneasy at the same time. _It was a moment I never thought I’d see come to pass... and now that it’s occurred..._

Ulfric’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. “And what course of action have you decided is fitting for the next chapter of your story?”

Kajsa turned towards him, her hand falling to her side. Silent and still, she looked at him for a long time, taking in every detail: the laces on the collar of his tunic, the way his goldenrod-colored hair fell around his broad shoulders, the blue-green eyes that never wavered from hers, the air of power and authority and charisma that he exuded.

 _He_ is _handsome,_ she thought, a little surprised at herself that she’d never thought those exact words before. _But... but there is more to him than just that. So much more._

_When I look at him, I see so many different men in him. I see the Jarl of Windhelm and the only son of the Bear of Eastmarch. I see the Greybeards’ stubborn student and the Legion officer tortured by the Thalmor. I see the man who started and ended a civil war, with an army at his back built of men and women he’d inspired to join his cause. I see the man who desires to become High King, who wants nothing more than to see the Aldmeri Dominion brought down for good and Skyrim rebuilt into a proud, independent nation. I see a political man, a cunning man who is accustomed to gaining and wielding power, a man who will not rest until he sees what he started through to the end, a distrustful man set in his ways and beliefs._

_But when I look at him again... I see the man who was willing to wait for me time and time again. I see the man who brought together warriors and thieves and assassins to rescue me from the Thalmor Embassy. I see the man who was willing to listen to my fears and accept me for my faults, the man who told me I was beautiful and brave and strong. I see the man who fathered my unborn son. I see the man who reminded me of what it is like to love someone so deeply that you can’t imagine living without them._

_I see the man who I want to spend the rest of my life with._

The Dragonborn felt something warm and wet slide down her cheek, and she realized with a start that she was crying; from what, she did not know. Hastily, she brought her hand up to wipe it away, just barely stifling a small sob as her throat hitched.

His jaw set, the jarl looked away. When he spoke, it was measured and emotionless. “If you do not wish to marry me, Kajsa, you have only to say so – and –” he took in a deep, steadying breath “– and I will not press you further.”

The full import of his words hit her like a battering ram. _He – he thinks I’m going to reject him!_ “No!”

The frantic cry that ripped from her throat caused Ulfric’s head to snap back up in alarm. Jaw still set, he stood slowly, looking down at her with a stormy expression in his eyes. “Then what would you have me do?”

“Ask me again,” she whispered hoarsely before she had time to think about what she was saying. “Ask me to marry you.”

He scrutinized her for a moment, the emotions in his eyes fading to a brief confusion, and then, at long last, some measure of understanding. Kajsa stood before him, her body coiled up tight with tension and worry, waiting for him to react.

Then: “Close your eyes.” His voice sounded lower and deeper than she’d ever heard it before.

She obeyed, the pounding of her heart thumping in her ears, every nerve in her body on edge and ready to flee. _It’s Ulfric,_ she told herself, trying to calm herself. _Only Ulfric._

Suddenly, the Dragonborn felt his arms wrap around her back and legs as he lifted her, cradling her against his chest – _like when he carried me back to the Palace of the Kings after the battle with the frost dragon_ , she remembered, the old memory resurfacing. _Oh, how things have changed since then..._

She was laid down, with her back against what felt like the bed, and his arms slipped away from her. The frame creaked as the jarl climbed onto the bed directly beside her, and he took her hand. Something cold and hard settled in her palm, and the warmth of his hand left hers.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

Kajsa did so, transferring the object he’d given her from one hand to another and held it up. She sucked in an awed breath as she saw what it was: a small ring of gleaming dragonbone, set with a flawlessly cut sapphire. As she rolled it between her fingers, she read the jagged letters of the words in the dragon language that were carved into the band:

**_Fah Dii Dovah Jud_ **

“Ulfric, it’s beautiful,” she whispered.

He nodded, smiling for the first time since she’d told him she was pregnant. “Eorlund does fine work.” Taking her free hand in his again, he sat up on the bed; she followed his lead, curling her fingers around his own.

Ulfric turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. “I will ask you again – _properly,_ this time.” He laughed quietly. “I know not what I will say... what I will be _able_ to say to you.” His face became solemn and serious once more.

“You have asked me on many occasions why I love you, sometimes asking if I only wanted the political and gods-given power that you hold. The truth is this: before we _truly_ met – not on the cart to Helgen, but after you brought the Butcher to justice – I _was_ interested in the abilities and powers of the Dragonborn, not whoever happened to hold the title, and I never thought that I would think any other way. But now... I know that not to be the case.

“A year later, I know what kind of woman you are. I know your hopes and your fears, your strengths and your weaknesses, and you know mine as well. I know your character as well as my own, perhaps even better. I know many things about you that you’ve never breathed a word of to anyone. I have known your body, and you mine.

“But most importantly, I know who you truly are, and I know how rare and beautiful and exceptional a woman you are.” His other hand caressed her scarred cheek. “And I know that I want you, that I _need_ you by my side for as long as I should live, because I know that you are the only woman that I could ever hope to be happy with.

“So on this night, I ask you this.” He looked deep into her eyes, blue-green to dark brown. “Kajsa Stormblade – Dovahkiin and Guildmaster and Champion – _Katarina_... will you marry me?”

The Dragonborn answered by slipping his ring onto her finger, eyes never wavering from his, and then leaning forward and brushing her lips against his own. “I will,” she murmured. “And I will be your queen.” _And damn the consequences._

He enfolded her in his arms, bringing her onto his lap and holding her close. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. “Then tomorrow, we win the throne of Skyrim.” He kissed her again, hard and fierce and determined. “ _Together._ ”

She smiled: not the wry or humorless smiles from before, but a true smile that curved up her lips and sent a glint to her eye. “Yes. Together.”

Returning the gesture, the jarl claimed her mouth again, one hand going to the laces on her shirt. She tangled her hands in his hair and the collar of his tunic, and they fell back onto the bed as two souls joined by the same purpose, called from wandering and united at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering about a translation of the inscription on the ring, it reads: "For my dragon queen." (After all, the Dragonborn and future High Queen can't just get an amulet of Mara!)
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	59. For the Want of a Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Musical Inspiration:** ["Guillotine," YADi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-fIkHOWi2Zo)

“My fellow jarls,” Vignar Grey-Mane began, his raspy voice carrying in the silence, “we have convened this Moot at a most critical time in Skyrim’s history. After a long struggle for our independence and sovereignty, this land is the freest it has been in centuries. The Legion has been defeated, routed from its seat in Solitude, and all of the nine holds are united in support of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and savior of Skyrim.” This last sentence was accompanied with a sweeping gesture towards the man in question, currently seated at the circular table that dominated the end of Dragonsreach’s Great Porch.

Ulfric nodded in acknowledgment, smiling slightly; his smile only widened when he heard Galmar’s none-too-subtle snort from behind him. _Let Vignar make his speeches, Galmar; it is not as though they are harming our cause._

“And of course,” the Jarl of Whiterun continued, “we also have another to thank: the Dragonborn, the slayer of Alduin himself. All of Tamriel owes you a debt, Dragonborn, not merely those who are gathered here today.”

Underneath the table, Ulfric reached over to the armrest of the chair next to him and squeezed Kajsa’s hand once before letting go. Her eyes darted over to him, and the corner of her mouth that he could see twitched upwards. (This also earned him another snort from his housecarl.)

 _It gladdens me that she could come today._ With her by his side – the woman he loved, his wife-to-be, the mother of their unborn son – he felt that much more assured of himself and of the chances of their success. _Nothing can stop us from attaining our desires now._

“Yet, even considering how far Skyrim has progressed, there is still a long way to go before these lands regain their former strength,” Vignar intoned. “The war for independence was not without losses and sacrifices. The towns and cities of the holds lie in disrepair, and crops rot in the fields for lack of hands to harvest them. Bandits lurk on the roads, and other, darker dangers rise up and seek to prey on our people.

“But we should also be concerned with enemies outside our borders. In the Summerset Isles and their territories, the Dominion lies in wait, building its armies and awaiting the day when they can conquer all of Tamriel. To the south, a political war rages in Cyrodiil as power-hungry nobles and the Elder Council continue to fight for control of the Ruby Throne after the assassination of the Emperor. Both the elves and whoever gains control of the Empire pose great threats.

“My fellow jarls, it is clear what we must do. As the Moot, we must choose a new High King to govern Skyrim fairly and justly; to restore our land to the powerful, proud, and mighty country it once was; and to combat the unwelcome advances of the Empire and the Dominion on our freedom. But even more importantly, we must choose one who is dedicated to protecting the interests of Skyrim and maintaining her freedom.

“These past few days, we have discussed the state of the holds and our people, as well as the potential candidates for kinghood. But at long last, on this very day... we select a new High King and determine the future of Skyrim.”

His speech complete, the Jarl of Whiterun seated himself in his chair once again. There was a polite smattering of applause from around the table, some jarls clapping more readily than others.

Still clapping as he stood, Ulfric addressed the older jarl. “Thank you for your wise words, Jarl Vignar. You do credit to us all.” His eyes briefly passed over the other jarls, all seated in high-backed thrones around the table with their housecarls standing dutifully behind them, and then he turned back to the Jarl of Whiterun. “With your permission, Jarl Vignar, I would like to begin the nominations.”

“You may, Jarl Ulfric.” Vignar folded his gnarled hands on the table. “State your name and that of the jarl you wish to nominate.”

The Jarl of Windhelm looked out over the wooden table at the faces surrounding it once more, closely watching them and gauging their reactions. “I, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm, wish to nominate myself as High King of Skyrim.” He sat again.

A murmur rose up from those around the table, and more than a few heads were nodded in agreement. Elisif’s face was impassive, but her eyes flickered downwards to the table. _The precise reaction I expected._

“Is there one among us who will back Jarl Ulfric’s nomination of himself?” Vignar asked.

Jarl Skald stood, puffing out his sunken chest proudly as he did so. “I, Jarl Skald of Dawnstar, called the Elder, will back Jarl Ulfric’s nomination. There is no better man to lead Skyrim in the dark days before us.” He sat, looking very pleased with himself.

The murmur rose up again, this time with a more dissonant note, and Ulfric knew exactly why; Jarl Skald was not especially popular amongst the other jarls and most (including Ulfric himself) took his opinion with a grain of salt – if they even considered it at all. Elisif actually rolled her eyes, though she lowered her eyelids demurely when Ulfric looked at her directly.

“Very well,” Vignar continued, overlooking the response of the other jarls. “Jarl Ulfric has been recognized as a candidate by the Moot. Are there other nominations to be made, or shall we proceed to the voting?”

In the still, Elisif stood, smoothing her skirts and then modestly folding her hands in front of her. “I would speak with your permission, Jarl Vignar.”

Ulfric ground his teeth together. _Surely she is not serious. To openly oppose me while flouting her oath... the jarls will not stand for this._

If the Jarl of Whiterun was surprised by this, he didn’t show it. “You may, Jarl Elisif.”

“Thank you, Jarl Vignar.” Elisif curtseyed delicately before addressing Ulfric. “Jarl Ulfric, you have proven yourself a worthy candidate for High King. Driving the Empire out of Skyrim was no small feat, and I speak for us all when I say that you are a hero for doing so.” Her lip twisted slightly, giving a hint to the bitterness she felt.

The Jarl of Windhelm smiled without warmth. “Thank you, _Jarl_ Elisif.” _Do not forget your place, girl. You have sworn fealty to me._

“However,” Elisif went on, not acknowledging his comment, “those who would make a good war, it is said, would rarely make a good peace, and peace and stability are what Skyrim needs most right now – not even more strife.” She squared her shoulders and brought up her chin. “I, Elisif of Solitude, called the Fair, wish to nominate myself as High Queen of Skyrim.”

The uproar was immediate as the aghast and angered jarls rose to their feet, shouting and arguing as their housecarls closed in even further to try and hold them back from instigating a fight. Ulfric remained seated, scrutinizing a still-standing Elisif and scowling when she smiled at him in a manner that could almost be described as smug.

“Enough!” Vignar stood, pounding on the table with his fist. “Let us take our seats and continue with the proceedings!”

Some still grumbling, others glowering at each other, the jarls reluctantly sat down, their housecarls dutifully returning to their posts. Elisif remained standing.

“Is there one among us who will back Jarl Elisif’s nomination of herself?” the Jarl of Whiterun asked a trifle wearily, seating himself again.

Jarl Sorli stood hesitantly. “I, Jarl Sorli of Morthal, called the Builder, will back Jarl Elisif’s nomination. She is a wise and fair leader.” She sat much more hastily than she stood.

“Then Jarl Elisif has been recognized as a candidate by the Moot,” Vignar concluded. “If anyone else wishes to speak or make a nomination, they must do so now before the vote.” He cast his eyes around the table sternly. “And in an orderly fashion.”

Ulfric stood immediately and addressed Elisif without asking permission of Vignar. “Jarl Elisif, do you honestly believe that you are best-suited to be Skyrim’s High Queen? And is breaking your oath of fealty to me a lesser price than the honor of wearing the Jagged Crown?” He gestured towards the center of the table where the Crown sat, the bones and teeth that comprised it gleaming in the morning light.

“I believe that you yourself have said before that a crown does not make a king, Jarl Ulfric,” the Jarl of Solitude said coolly. “On the other hand, blood does. After the death of my husband, High King Torygg, the crown should have rightfully gone to me and I intend to see that the Moot decides just that.”

“If this is a question of blood, then you would do well to remember that you are not blood kin to the High Kings of Skyrim – only married to one once,” the Jarl of Windhelm growled. “Your claim means nothing.”

“It is stronger than yours,” Elisif retorted. “Of _that_ , there is no doubt.”

Jarl Dengeir cleared his throat uncomfortably, catching the attention of all. “Jarl Elisif, having a High Queen rule alone is... unheard of. Should you become the High Queen, the jarls will expect you to marry again.” Murmurs of assent followed his words.

The Jarl of Solitude smiled tightly. “I am well aware of that, Jarl Dengeir.”

Jarl Korir stood. “Jarl Elisif, Jarl Ulfric: perhaps you should consider marriage to each other. Then the Moot will be decided and Skyrim will have gained two capable rulers.” He sat again.

Elisif paled instantly, and Ulfric had a hard time keeping his satisfied smile to himself. _Good. Let her be afraid – that fear will hinder her naïve ambition._

“That is also a viable option,” Vignar admitted, albeit a tad grudgingly, “and it is one that the Moot will explore further. Jarl Elisif –” he addressed the other jarl “– would you be willing and able to marry Jarl Ulfric?”

The Jarl of Solitude took a deep, shaky breath. “If it would unite Skyrim and bring her people together... then yes. I could and I would.” She appeared slightly more composed now, but her eyes betrayed her disgust.

Ulfric frowned to himself. _The rose has shown her thorns, then. That was... unexpected._

Vignar nodded and turned his attention to the other standing jarl. “And what of you, Jarl Ulfric? Would you be willing and able to marry Jarl Elisif?”

Immediately, the jarls turned their attention from the shaken, yet resolute Elisif to the composed Ulfric, expectantly waiting a response.

The Jarl of Windhelm smiled. “Would I be _willing_ to wed a woman whose beauty is known throughout Skyrim?” He spread his arms, indicating the other jarls around the table. “You tell me whether I would be merely ‘willing’ or not.”

There were some understanding chuckles from a few of the older male jarls. Elisif’s hands clenched into fists around her skirts.

“However, as to whether I would be _able_ to wed Jarl Elisif...” He shook his head, as if he were honestly regretting his words to come. “I would not. I am to wed another, and I would not dream of breaking my promise to her.”

The murmur rose up again, and several of the jarls turned to whisper speculatively to one another or to glance around the table and try to gauge the reactions of others. Only Kajsa’s face remained neutral.

The Jarl of Solitude spoke again, her tone holding a touch of false sympathy. “Jarl Ulfric, I would not dream of degrading the sacred bond formed by marriage, but I must urge you to reconsider. As Jarl Vignar has so wisely observed, Skyrim faces difficult times that will require much political finesse to maneuver through –”

“And so you deem yourself, a woman with little experience in politics, to be a suitable candidate for marriage to me?” Ulfric demanded.

Elisif glared at him, her façade of concern gone. “I am the Jarl of Solitude, kin to the High Kings of Skyrim and descended from noble blood. I certainly consider myself to be a worthier High Queen than some – some baseborn sellsword _slut!_ ”

In the stunned silence, Kajsa rose from her seat. “I apologize, Jarl Elisif, but I did not quite hear what you said.” She smiled coldly, her eyes dark with anger. “Would you mind repeating it for the Moot to hear more clearly?”

There were more than a few audible gasps around the table, and more than a fair amount of angry, shocked mutters as the jarls realized who Elisif had insulted. At their adverse reaction, whatever color was left in the Jarl of Solitude’s face drained from it.

Vignar held up his hand for silence and then spoke again. “Dragonborn, are you indeed the woman that Jarl Ulfric intends to marry?”

“I am.” Her voice rang out in the open air. “And for those of you who do not believe that this is so –” her eyes flickered to Elisif “– I am sure that this will lay all your doubts to rest.” She held up her hand to display the ring on her finger, eliciting impressed looks from the other jarls.

Ulfric glanced over at her admiringly. In her silk dress of Eastmarch blue and a long, sleeveless robe trimmed with pale fur, with her regal, proud bearing and piercing eyes – even without a crown, she looked every inch a queen. _And the Moot can see that._

Face still pale, Elisif slowly sank into her seat without another word. Satisfied that the other woman had backed down, the Dragonborn seated herself and Ulfric did so as well.

“Well-played,” he murmured, his voice low enough so that only she could hear. _Though she claims to detest the games of politicians, she plays the game beautifully._

Kajsa smiled slyly.

“Are there any more nominations to be made?” Vignar finally asked, breaking the silence. When there were no responses, he continued. “Then we shall proceed to the vote.

“We have two candidates: Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm and Jarl Elisif of Solitude, called the Fair. Each jarl, with the exception of the nominees, must cast one vote when their name is called. Whichever nominee gains the majority of the votes will be crowned High King or Queen.

“As I am hosting this Moot, tradition gives me the first vote.” He paused to clear his throat. “I cast my vote for Jarl Ulfric.”

Ulfric permitted himself a pleased smile as the murmur rose again, hushed and anticipating. _I knew I could count on Vignar._

The Jarl of Whiterun then turned to the jarl next to him. “Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood of Markarth, how do you vote?”

“I cast my vote for Jarl Ulfric,” Jarl Thongvor answered gruffly.

“Jarl Sorli of Morthal, called the Builder, how do you vote?”

“I cast my vote for Jarl Elisif,” Jarl Sorli said simply.

Now it was Elisif’s turn to smile mockingly, even in the midst of discontented mutters. Ulfric ground his teeth.

Vignar soldiered on. “Jarl Skald of Dawnstar, called the Elder, how do you vote?”

“For Jarl Ulfric, of course!” Jarl Skald rasped. “Have you no ears?”

The Jarl of Whiterun sighed and moved on. “Jarl Korir of Winterhold, how do you vote?”

Jarl Korir scowled. “I cast my vote for Jarl Elisif.”

 _This is ridiculous!_ Ulfric clenched his fists. _Elisif, the young, inexperienced Imperial puppet, gaining ground in the Moot?!_ Elisif, _of all people –!_

“Jarl Laila Law-Giver of Riften,” Vignar continued, “how do you vote?”

Jarl Laila sighed disinterestedly. “I cast my vote for Jarl Elisif.”

Swallowing, Ulfric tallied the votes in his mind. _Three for three. It all hinges on –_

“Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath, how do you vote?”

Absolute silence reigned on the Great Porch. All heads turned towards the Jarl of Falkreath, none more quickly than those of Elisif and Ulfric. Jarl Dengeir shifted in his seat nervously, looking exceedingly uncomfortable with all the attention.

“Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath,” the Jarl of Whiterun repeated, “how do you vote?”

The aging Jarl of Falkreath coughed shakily. “I – I cast my vote for Jarl Ulfric.”

Ulfric let his breath out, becoming aware for the first time that he’d been holding it.

“ _What?!_ ” A furious Elisif shot out of her seat. “Jarl Dengeir, you –!”

“Sit down, Jarl Elisif,” Vignar ordered, “or I shall have no choice but to eject you.”

Spine straight and rigid, the Jarl of Solitude stepped away from the table. “There is no need for that, Jarl Vignar. I am perfectly capable of showing myself out.” With that scathing retort and a haughty swish of her skirts, she marched towards the direction of the door into Dragonsreach with her housecarl following close behind.

Standing up, the Jarl of Whiterun broke the silence once more. “Then the judgment of this Moot is complete. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm will be Skyrim’s High King, and the Dragonborn shall be his High Queen – that is, unless anyone has any objections to the latter,” he added, glancing meaningfully around the table. When no one made to voice an opinion, he continued on. “Then our task here is done and the Moot is now over. You may depart now.”

With a scraping of chair legs on stone, the jarls stood up and began their exodus from the table, housecarls trailing after them. Ulfric stood as well, stepping away from the table and rolling his stiff shoulders back to loosen them as he did so.

Vignar approached him, holding out his hand and smiling broadly. “Congratulations, _High King_ Ulfric. And to you as well, Dragonborn,” he said, addressing a now-standing Kajsa. “The two of you will be formidable rulers indeed. The Dominion and the Empire will surely think twice before engaging Skyrim now!”

The Jarl of Windhelm shook his proffered hand briefly with a grim smile. “That’s the idea.”

“Shame that Elisif couldn’t have done that before she made a fool of herself before the Moot,” Galmar remarked dryly, chuckling. “Oh, the look on her face! That was some damn good timing, Red-Blade!”

“It’s ‘Stormblade’ now, actually,” Kajsa corrected him with a faint smile.

“But it will be ‘Stormcloak’ soon enough,” Ulfric reminded her, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her on the forehead.

“Speaking of which, when were you planning to tell me _that_ development?” his housecarl demanded. “Saving the announcement especially for the Moot?”

The Dragonborn shrugged, an almost-impish gleam in her eye. “It was not _quite_ intentional, but it turned out to be timed very well.”

“Gods, the pair of you are too dramatic for your own good,” Galmar grumbled. “I just hope you’re planning to inform Jorleif of what’s transpired so he has a head start on going into conniptions over planning the coronation _and_ the wedding.”

The Jarl of Windhelm laughed. “I will send a letter to him tonight. You do not mind if we stay a while longer, do you, Vignar?” he asked, turning to the jarl in question.

“Not at all,” Vignar said. “I would be honored to host the future High King and Queen of Skyrim in my hall.” He motioned ahead of them. “Come. Let us walk a bit, for there is much we have to discuss.”

His arm still around Kajsa’s waist, Ulfric guided them both towards the indicated direction, filled with an overwhelming sense of relief and pride. _It is over. Despite our struggles... we have won at last._

* * *

Alone in her chambers, Elisif numbly reread the letter for what seemed like the thousandth time, her eyes taking in the poisonous words formed by the severe, upright script:

> _To Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude:_
> 
> _It is so good to hear from you again. I was beginning to wonder if you had proven yourself willing to listen to me or not, but it appears that you have chosen to do so. A wise decision._
> 
> _You and I have much in common. We are both women who have had our power taken away from us due to situations that we did our best to control. We are both women who have been given a final chance at redemption. And, of course, we are united in our keen and mutual dislike of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and the Dragonborn: the very people who brought about our downfall._
> 
> _The Dominion wishes to regain control of Skyrim, and I wish to have my post as First Emissary back. You wish to be High Queen. We have so much to offer each other, and we can each make the other’s dreams a reality – starting with you becoming High Queen._
> 
> _Here is what I propose. Approach these four jarls – Jarl Sorli of Morthal, Jarl Korir of Winterhold, Jarl Laila of Riften, and Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath – and gain their support. The Dominion will be happy to provide financial support should you need it; all four will certainly want it, given the decimated, depleted states of their holds. Reason with them and show them why they must vote for you and the Moot and_ not _Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak by any means possible._
> 
> _After the Moot, write back to me at once. I eagerly await the news of your success._
> 
> _For the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion!_
> 
> _Lady Elenwen Saururiil, formerly First Emissary to Skyrim  
>  _

Folding the letter in half, Elisif swallowed hard. She had no intention of writing back. _This was a mistake. A terrible, grievous mistake. I – I should have never allied myself with the Thalmor._

She was aware of the potential consequences for her actions at the Moot. The other jarls regarded her with suspicion, and some of Ulfric’s more fervent supporters had been outright hostile. The jarl would not have been surprised if she never got the chance to leave Whiterun.

 _Now that he has been confirmed as the next High King,_ _Ulfric certainly has the power to strip me of my title and imprison me for treason... but will he?_ She swallowed. _He may be more merciful than the Thalmor, at least. As Elenwen discovered, the price for failing the Dominion is far worse than imprisonment._

Elisif crumpled the letter into a ball and threw the parchment into the fire. It settled amidst the burning logs in the hearth and caught flame instantly. Yet as she watched it burn, she did not completely feel absolved of her guilt.

 _No matter what I do... there is no going back now._ Her lips flattened into a thin, resolute line. _I will see this through. I have to: for myself, for my husband... and for Skyrim._

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she drew her chair back up to the desk. Taking out a fresh piece of parchment from one of the drawers and pulling the ink and quill in the corner a tad closer, the jarl began to write her response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter after this - then it's all over...
> 
> Feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs!


	60. Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... last chapter. (This feels really weird, NGL.)
> 
> **Musical Inspiration:** ["After the Storm" by Mumford and Sons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqUsAHTUPTU) and ["King and Lionheart" by Of Monsters and Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A76a_LNIYwE)

“Well?” Babette asked impatiently, practically bouncing up and down in anticipation. “How do you like your wedding dress?”

Kajsa slowly turned around in front of the full-length mirror, craning her head over her shoulder to try and get a better look at what she was wearing. The dress itself reminded her of the gown that Niranye had stolen from Radiant Raiment for her – same color that she and Ulfric both loved, same material that whispered against her skin – but the skirt was longer and the sleeves looser, the neckline narrower and deeper, and the hem and collar both displayed skillful, elaborate embroidery in silver thread. The long, sleeveless robe over it was the grey of storm clouds, and it was trimmed in sleek, dark fur that drank up the light. Both garments were loose in their construction, the robe much more so than the gown, but both flattered her immensely.

It was an outfit fit for a queen; of _that_ there was no doubt. And yet, in all this finery, she felt like a stranger in her own body, like a young girl trying on her mother’s too-large clothes.

“It’s –” the Dragonborn struggled for words “– very nice. _Much_ nicer than what I’m used to wearing –” She sighed irritably. “I look – I don’t look like myself.”

“That’s the point,” the vampire said. “You can’t wear your armor to your own wedding, let alone both your wedding _and_ your coronation, so you need to look pretty and make everyone else present pea-green with envy. Besides,” she added, “I’m not sure if you’ve realized this, but what a queen wears one day is a fashion trend the next day. And I’m not going to let you wear _armor_ on today of all days.”

Kajsa raised her eyebrows, but huffed. “Fine. I suppose this is what I deserve for letting you pick my wedding dress.”

Karliah smiled. “Kajsa, stop worrying. You look lovely.”

“I’m not worrying,” the Dragonborn said flatly.

Babette shrugged. “If you say so. Now, come sit down over here so I can fix your hair.”

Turning away from the mirror, Kajsa sat down in the chair that the assassin had pulled out, curling her hands in her lap. She could feel the tugging at her roots as Babette started to drag a brush through her sleep-rumpled hair, but she ignored it. Closing her eyes, she focused on hearing what was outside the small chamber just off the main hall of the Temple of Talos: soft footfalls, hushed and reverent voices, the rustling of fine clothes as people stood and sat and moved about.

_They’re all here for the wedding and the coronation._ Her throat tightened. _And while I know some quite well, some of them are virtual strangers to me...._

While both she and Ulfric had wanted as small a wedding as possible, the jarl had grudgingly invited the other jarls of Skyrim, save for Elisif – _who’s not getting out much these days,_ she added with a grim smile. Upon Ulfric’s command, the former Jarl of Solitude had been stripped of her title and imprisoned after the Moot, when a treasonous letter from her to the Aldmeri Dominion had been intercepted at the border, and was currently awaiting trial: a task that would require yet another meeting of the Moot before the year was out.

_Less than a month after the Moot, not yet High Queen – and already making so many decisions._ The Dragonborn sighed again, more resigned than anything else. _But then again, this responsibility may be easier than those in the past, especially since I am free of other obligations._

As tiny fingers began to work through her hair, Babette’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Sister, is it true that you’ve made Nazir the official leader of the Brotherhood?”

“Yes. It is true.” Kajsa kept her voice as even as possible. “Why do you ask?”

“Just for confirmation,” the vampire said innocently.

“Babette...” the Dragonborn warned.

“Fine,” the assassin pouted. “It’s just that I thought you would continue to run the Brotherhood from afar, like you’ve done in the past. I mean, you _were_ the Listener, after all...”

“We’ve spoken of this before, Babette,” Kajsa rejoined, her voice lowered. “Ever since I began to cut off my ties to the Daedra, the Night Mother spoke to me less and less, and then when I was... _captured_ , the connection vanished entirely. She hasn’t said a word to me since then, and she probably never will. I have been effectively stripped of that ‘honor.’”

She could practically hear Babette’s frown as the little girl continued to braid her hair. “So... you think the Night Mother is looking for another Listener?”

“One that will be more constant than I,” the Dragonborn confirmed wryly.

“You may not be the Listener – or not think that you are – but you’re still my sister. You’ll always be a part of the Brotherhood, just... one that’s not there,” the vampire said quietly. She glanced over at a silently listening Karliah. “Has she done this to the Thieves Guild, too? Giving up her leadership?”

The Dunmer nodded. “Bryn’s still in denial.”

“As his Second, you’re going to have to beat it into his head that _he’s_ the Guildmaster now, not me,” Kajsa ordered, but she smiled as she said it. “Promise me that, Karliah.”

“I shall.” Karliah shifted her weight from one leg to the other, the skirt of her velvet dress swishing over the stone floor. “If you don’t mind me asking, Kajsa: what of the Companions?”

“I visited them when I was in Whiterun for the Moot,” the Dragonborn replied curtly. “They have another Harbinger now.”

In truth, it hadn’t been much of a visit. She’d slipped into Jorrvaskr late in the evening to find the Circle members gathered in the main hall, and she’d stayed long enough to approach them, tell Vilkas that he was Harbinger, give him the sack containing the rest of the Glenmoril witches’ heads, and then walk out before anyone could accost her. To her surprise, she was experiencing very little regret over it. _Vilkas and I have a strained relationship, but he’ll make a better Harbinger than I. I didn’t even belong in Jorrvaskr in the first place._

Thankfully, the Dunmer did not inquire further on that matter. “It would seem that you are quite earnest in taking on the mantle of High Queen, then.”

“Judging by the amount of paperwork I’ve had to sort through and the number of decisions I’ve had to make in the past few weeks, it’s going to be a taxing job,” Kajsa said dryly. “I need to focus my attention on that.”

Karliah smiled. “Well, if you should ever need the assistance of the Guild – and you may yet – do not hesitate. We will be at your service.”

“As will the Brotherhood, I’m sure,” Babette chimed in, stepping away. “Go on, sister. Take a look.” She grinned proudly. “You look _incredible_.”

Leaning forward to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the Dragonborn stared at her reflection for a time. The assassin had plaited her hair back from her face and swept it into a small braided coil at the nape of her neck, turning her ragged, shoulder-length hair into something that was actually presentable.

Kajsa turned her head, returning the vampire’s gesture. “Thank you, Babette.”

“Are you ready, Kajsa?” Karliah inquired. “Your guests might be getting impatient.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. Babette –” she addressed the assassin again “– could you go get Brynjolf and tell him it’s time?”

Babette nodded and scurried out of the chamber.

Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, the Dunmer scrutinized her fellow thief for a moment. “Are you ready, Kajsa?” she asked quietly.

The Dragonborn looked up, surprised at her question. “What do you mean?”

“Are you ready for this?” Karliah repeated. “Getting married, being High Queen, being a mother... last time we spoke, you seemed overwhelmed by the life before you.”

Kajsa’s pensive eyes rested on the other Nightingale for a long time. Then: “You know, I keep thinking this is – that this is a dream. I know it’s not; I know it’s all real, but...” She fell silent for a moment. “If it were a dream, this is the best dream I’ve had in a while. Alduin’s dead, Orthorien’s dead, I’m free of most of the Daedra... and I can live without fate dictating what I do.

“I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I can never go back to the life I had before I returned to Skyrim – and I know now that I can stop dwelling on the past.” She stood. “My future is ahead of me, Karliah... and I intend to seize it.” She smiled slightly. “Like you said.”

The Dunmer returned the gesture. “Then I wish you all the best. Good luck, Kajsa... and enjoy this day.” She hugged her tightly, and then released her. “Farewell for now. I must go take my place – and so must you.”

“I second that,” Brynjolf agreed, striding in. “Everyone’s in their seats, lasses. It’s time for _you_ –” he pointed at Karliah “– to go sit down with the others and for _you_ –” now he pointed at Kajsa “– to make your grand entrance.”

“Well, what have you been doing all this time?” Karliah asked pointedly.

“A little light fishing,” the former Second answered, grinning slyly. “Just warming up for the reception. So, Kajsa –” he turned his attention back to the Dragonborn “– Babette said that you wanted to see me.”

“Yes. I realized I forgot to give you these.” Reaching around to the table behind her and snatching up a small leather pouch, she tossed it at him. “And don’t even _think_ about giving those back to me. They’re yours now.”

Opening it, Brynjolf pulled out a key and the Amulet of Articulation. He examined them briefly and then dropped them back into the pouch, heaving a sigh. “All right, lass. Whatever you say. Even though I’m Guildmaster, I still take orders from you.”

“Well, you should,” Kajsa said teasingly. “After all, I’ll be a queen soon.”

“Aye. That you will.” Tucking the pouch into a hidden pocket in his dress clothes, the new Guildmaster gave his predecessor a gentle push. “Go on out there and get married, lass.”

Nodding, the Dragonborn gathered up the skirts of her dress and carefully walked to the doorway into the temple. Letting the fabric fall again, she smoothed it out hastily, took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold.

From the back, she could see that the pews were packed with all manner of people, from jarls and nobles to fellow Guild members; Brynjolf and Karliah had quickly slipped into the last open seats next to Delvin and Vex. Babette was near the back with Nazir, and she glimpsed all three members of the Circle up nearer to the front.

At the base of the shrine of Talos by the orange-robed priest of Mara was Ulfric: standing tall and proud in his finest fur-trimmed robes, looking like royalty already. His eyes caught hers – and almost immediately, the crowd turned around to see her standing there by the doorway.

Lifting her chin up a little higher, Kajsa began to walk down the aisle: slowly, in a stately manner, just like she and Karliah and Babette had practiced the day before. She felt everyone’s eyes on her as she passed by the rows of pews one by one, yet she did not acknowledge them. Her gaze was on the man waiting for her.

And after what seemed like an eternity, she reached him and stood by his side. The jarl smiled and then they both turned to face the hooded priest.

“It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children,” the priest began. “It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another – and it is from this love that we learn that a life lived alone is no life at all.”

The Dragonborn swallowed. Sensing her discomfort at the words, Ulfric grasped her hand and squeezed it slightly.

“What is love?” the priest continued. “It takes many forms and speaks many languages, but we can all identify it for what it is: kind, patient, forgiving, steadfast. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. And it is what holds us together – parent to child, husband to wife, king to country – for love never fades and never dies.

“We gather here today under Mara’s loving gaze to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship.May they journey forth together in this life and the next: in prosperity and poverty, in joy and hardship, in peace and war.” The priest paused, looking back and forth between the two of them before his gaze settled on the jarl. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm: do youagree to be bound to this woman in love, now and forever?”

“I do,” Ulfric answered, smiling at Kajsa. “Now and forever.”

The priest turned to the woman in question. “Kajsa Stormblade, Dragonborn: do you agree to be bound to this man in love, now and forever?”

“I do,” she said softly, momentarily startling herself with how different it sounded to her. “Now and forever.”

Nodding in approval, the priest held up his hand, displaying two bands, each one woven of tiny golden strands and carved with runes. “Then I present the two of you with these matching rings, blessed by Mara’s divine grace. May they protect each of you in your new life together.”

He indicated that each of them should hold out their hands. Both the jarl and the Dragonborn obeyed, and the priest slipped the bands onto their fingers, taking extra care around Kajsa’s engagement ring.

“Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed,” the priest announced, then turned to Ulfric. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Wrapping his arm around her waist, the jarl pulled her close to him and kissed her. In the midst of the cheers and the sighs from the crowd, Kajsa found herself winding her arms around his shoulders like she’d done so many times before and kissing him back.

“ _Neh il zey shur,_ Ulfric,” she whispered against his lips. _I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life._

Breaking the kiss, but still keeping his arm around her and his hand on her waist, the jarl smiled warmly. “ _Zu’u keit, dii lokal._ ”

His hand slipped from her body and wound around her own hand again as they turned back to the front, the jubilation of the crowd behind them finally dying down. The priest bowed his head in acknowledgement, and then stepped away from the shrine to make way for Vignar Grey-Mane, followed by a beaming Heimskr. The priest reverently set down on the shrine what he’d been carrying – a cushion bearing both the Jagged Crown and a diadem of beautifully carved dragonbone – and then took his place by the Jarl of Whiterun’s side.

“Today is a glorious day for Skyrim,” Vignar began, “for on this day, Skyrim gains a High King and Queen. Just as they have been united under the eyes of the Divines, so shall this land and her peoples be as one under their reign. May they rule for many years.” He looked from Ulfric to Kajsa and then back to Ulfric. “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm: are you prepared to take the oath?”

“I am,” the Jarl of Windhelm replied.

“And you, Kajsa Stormcloak, Dragonborn: are you prepared to take the oath?” the Jarl of Whiterun asked, turning to her.

The Dragonborn nodded. “I am.”

“Then kneel.”

Both Ulfric and Kajsa knelt down on the stone floor of the temple, raising their heads. The solemn statue of Talos loomed over them, and Kajsa couldn’t help but wonder if that was the intent of having them kneel: to have them know that the Ninth Divine was watching them.

“Now you say the words which have been spoken by every ruler of Skyrim since the days of Ysgramor himself,” Vignar intoned. “Repeat after me: I do swear my blood and honor to Skyrim and her people, from now until the end of my days.”

“I do swear my blood and honor to Skyrim and her people,” the two of them murmured, “from now until the end of my days.”

“I swear to rule wisely and justly and to uphold the laws of this land,” the Jarl of Whiterun continued. “I swear my sword and my shield to Skyrim’s protection, and may I be first to defend her from her foes and last to quit the field of battle.”

“I swear to rule wisely and justly and to uphold the laws of this land. I swear my sword and my shield to Skyrim’s protection, and may I be first to defend her from her foes and last to quit the field of battle.” Their interwoven voices echoed in the still of the temple.

“May this oath bind me to Skyrim and her people until my soul is called to Sovngarde,” Vignar finished. “This I swear, and may Talos be my witness.”

“May this oath bind me to Skyrim and her people until my soul is called to Sovngarde. This I swear, and may Talos be my witness.” Their oath complete, the two of them fell silent.

The Jarl of Whiterun nodded at Heimskr, and the priest of Talos lifted up the Jagged Crown from the cushion and stepped forward, lowering it onto Ulfric’s head. Turning back to the shrine, he picked up the diadem and then placed it on Kajsa’s head before stepping back, looking as though he would burst with pride at any moment.

“Then rise, Ulfric and Kajsa Stormcloak,” Vignar proclaimed, “as High King and Queen of Skyrim!”

The two of them stood amidst cheers and applause more thunderous than before, and they turned to face the ecstatic crowd behind them. Kajsa glimpsed the Guild members on their feet: Delvin and Brynjolf whistling loudly and Karliah and Vex clapping, the latter with what looked like a grudging smile on her face. In the back, Babette was cheering openly, while Nazir clapped beside her. Nearer to the front, Aela smiled proudly, Farkas clapped enthusiastically, and Vilkas simply nodded approvingly.

Kajsa found herself smiling as well, her heart swelling with happiness. _How far I’ve come in a little over a year: from common thief and sellsword... to Dragonborn and High Queen._ She looked beside her, at Ulfric – _my husband,_ she reminded herself. _He is mine now... and nothing will tear him from me again._

Glancing over, the High King offered her his arm with a smile. She took it, and together, they descended from the shrine and down the aisle, into the crowd of wedding guests and the wall of sound: laughing, cheering, calling their names.

Ulfric leaned in, whispering under the noise. “ _Frolok ahst niin. Pah do niin los het fah mii,_ ”he observed,“ _ahrk til los pogaan zuk pekvon tireid._ ” _Look at them. All of them are here for us, and there are many more waiting outside._

The Dragonborn smiled to herself. In the past few weeks, they had taken to conversing in the dragon tongue with greater frequency so as to ensure privacy in their conversations, especially now that it seemed that everyone around them was hanging on their every word. “ _Ruz mu kend ni dein niin pekvon,_ ” she suggested lightly. “ _Joriin hind wah koraav niist jun._ ” _Then we must not keep them waiting. The people wish to see their king._

“ _Ahrk niist jud,_ ” he reminded her, resting his other hand on hers. “Dii _jud._ ” _And their queen._ My _queen._

They were drawing closer to the end of the aisle now. Even from inside the temple, through the stone walls and heavy bronze door, Kajsa heard the clamor of the crowd of citizens outside: people who’d come from all over Skyrim to see the crowning of their new High King and Queen. Once or twice, she thought she heard snatches of muffled song, notes of “The Age of Oppression” mingling with “The Dragonborn Comes.”

“ _Mu aal engein wah Keizaal nu,_ ” she said softly, “ _nuz hi fent unstiid lost dii zahreik._ ” _We may belong to Skyrim now, but you shall always have my heart._

He looked over at her then; with the Jagged Crown resting on his brow, the ancient dragon teeth framing his face with its powerful jaw and prominent, rugged features, he looked every inch a king. Yet there was still a softness of sorts in his eyes.

“ _Zu’u los unaz wah hon tol,”_ he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her again. “ _Ahrk hi fent unstiid lost ungol ol eyvir,_ Katarina.” _I am happy to hear that. And you shall always have mine as well, Katarina._

Ralof and Galmar were standing by the door, both of them clad in their officer’s uniforms and clapping. However, when the pair of them approached, Ralof hastily opened the door with a respectful nod in their direction.

Galmar immediately stepped out, facing the mass of people outside. “Presenting Ulfric and Kajsa Stormcloak,” he bellowed over the noise, “High King and Queen of Skyrim!”

Ulfric smiled at her. “ _Los hi nuk wah luft lein?_ ” he asked. _Are you ready to face the world?_

The Dragonborn returned the gesture, tightening her grip on his arm. “ _Zu’u los nu,_ ” she answered. “ _Mu los zumul pahvoth._ ” _I am now. We are stronger together._

He nodded, still smiling. “ _Tol mu los. Ahrk pah lein fen mindok tol._ ” _That we are. And all the world will know that._

With one last kiss, they turned their heads to the door. Galmar moved aside, and the two of them stepped out into the freezing sunlight of the Windhelm morning and into the euphoric sea of faces that was singing, cheering, calling their names: _Stormcloak! Dragonborn! Stormcloak! Dragonborn!_

_All hail the High King! All hail the High Queen!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it's finally finished. _Again,_ technically, but still: it feels monumental to me. :)
> 
> Anyway, here are the translations for the two phrases that I did not translate in-text:  
> • _Neh il zey shur._ = Never let me go.  
>  • _Zu’u keit, dii lokal._ = I promise, my love.
> 
> Aaand here are more extras in the form of playlists! It's a rare writing piece of mine that hasn't been inspired by music in some way, and "The Bear and the Wolf" is no exception.  
> • **[Heroine Without Honor](http://8tracks.com/turwaithi3l/heroine-without-honor):** A playlist for Kajsa Red-Blade  
>  • **[The Bear and the Wolf](http://8tracks.com/turwaithi3l/the-bear-and-the-wolf):** A playlist for the relationship between Kajsa and Ulfric  
>  • **[No Friend Or Lover](http://8tracks.com/turwaithi3l/no-friend-or-lover):** A playlist for the relationship between Kajsa and Orthorien
> 
> As always, feel free to stop by [my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs! When I start working on the next fic to be reposted, that'll be the first place you'll hear about it.
> 
> And again: thank you to all you readers, reviewers, kudos-leavers, and lurkers. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and I hope you've enjoyed this fic as much as I have had sharing it with you.
> 
> **_BrunetteAuthorette99_**


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